


Patient #9 - Matthew Crawley

by msmenna



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Mystery, Resurrection of major character, major characters reunited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 59,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmenna/pseuds/msmenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This tale asks the question, "What if Matthew Crawley did not die the day his son was born?"</p><p>Here we follow the floppy haired lawyer from Manchester and future Earl of Grantham from the moment he wakes up in a London Hospital suffering amnesia.  Through journal entries that he makes in order to not forget any more of his life, we journey with him in his quest to discover his identity and reclaim his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October 29th, 1921

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a big payoff so I hope you will stick with it. You will find a mix of fiction and historical facts and figures throughout. 
> 
> The epilogue takes place in 1940 and it will bring you up to speed on many of Downton's major characters, both upstairs and down, as they gather at Downton to wish George Crawley good luck on his 19th birthday, the night before he heads off to war.  
> It has now been posted.
> 
> Matthew's resurrection has been months in the making, so I hope you will let me know if you have enjoyed this story.

September 18th, 1940

If not for Mary's request, I would be lying beside her at this very moment relishing her company and the comfort of our bed instead of hunched over this desk with pen in hand.

"You must find it, Matthew," she pleaded as we made our way out of the dining room. "I want to give it to George for luck when he leaves in the morning."

She did not have to elaborate on what "it" was.

Though she spoke softly, there was no mistaking the urgency in the tone of her voice. I looked squarely into the brown eyes that I still find myself lost in after two decades of marriage and promised Mary that I would deliver "it" to her before the day was out. At that, she looped her arm through mine and smiled. I was pleased to see that this smile was genuine, unlike so many that had been manufactured for my and George's benefit since he enlisted in the RAF.

"I knew I could count on you," she said as we set off to join our guests in the Saloon.

Returning her smile, I covered her hand with mine and replied, "Always, my darling…Always."

The tiny stuffed dog was exactly where I thought it would be inside an old chest that I had brought with me from Manchester. Ultimately, it became the receptacle for a variety of items I have collected over the years that I could not part with. One is this very journal. When I came upon it tonight lying next to the miniature clay horse that George had sculpted for me for my 41st birthday, I felt compelled to pick it up.

As I held the small diary in my hand, I thought of Ruth Head, my neurologist's wife, who so graciously welcomed me into her home when I was discharged from the London Hospital. And running my hand over my name on the journal cover, I remembered how optimistic she was that Christmas in 1921 that one day it would be there.

...

Mary and I separated as we entered the room in order to divide our attention between the guests who were scattered about. In no time, the party was in full swing, the sound of merriment floating up to the Gallery testament that a good time was being had by all.

The furniture had been strategically situated earlier in the day to allow for dancing and the lovely waltz playing on the gramophone brought many guests to their feet. Mary and I have shared in many of the hosting duties since Robert and Cora entered into their 70's, but we deferred the first dance of the evening to the Earl and Countess of Grantham.

All eyes were on the still happily married couple as they glided around the room, executing the dance beautifully. Shortly, my in-laws were joined by Tom and his wife Catherine. And before long, the floor was filled with couples relishing a much needed respite from the War.

Taking in the smiling faces before me, I was glad that Mary and I had not canceled the party due to the situation in London. We made our decision based on Robert's reasoning that we would be handing the Germans a victory if we did since their intent is to strip us of any normalcy in our lives. And that we must fight at every turn.

The scene before my eyes brought back many happy memories of Downton of yesteryear. It warmed my heart to see the dance floor filled with friends and family who have been a part of my and Mary's story, some for three decades. The occasion even prompted an appearance by some of the servants who left our employ many years ago. We hear news of them often from Mr. Molelsey, whose position at Downton has run the gamut from valet to footman and now tutor. As such, he has accumulated a plethora of knowledge about Downton's employees, past and present which he is more than willing to share.

...

Mr. Carson and his wife arrived at our front door precisely one hour after dinner ended. I freely admit that addressing our former head housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, as Mrs. Carson did not come easy. Mary and I, as well the rest of the household, could not believe our ears when the two announced that they were engaged.

Learning of the news, my father-in-law nearly choked on the tea he had been drinking and launched into a prolonged coughing fit. Cora had rolled her eyes at him before making her way to Mrs. Hughes to offer her congratulations while Mr. Carson stood over the Earl with a bleak expression on his face. Each time Mary and I would hear him ask, "Sir, are you quite all right?" we would burst into laughter. Our amusement prompted the red-faced Earl to glare at us both while pointing to the door, clearly not finding any humor in the situation.

Tonight as my eyes searched the room to locate my wife, I felt Tom poke me with his elbow to get my attention. When I looked his way, he directed me with a nod of his head to the spot where Robert was offering the former Head Butler a glass of champagne. We two stood transfixed as Carson took the glass of sparkling wine from his hand, bowed his head and said, "Thank you, your Lordship." Then both men flinched and looked about the room as though it were foreign to them.

Tom hit me on the back and said, "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

It was abundantly clear that Mr. Carson would have been more at ease serving Lord Grantham's guests than being one. In fact, he would have likely remained home in the cottage that he and his wife have shared these past 15 years were it not for the fact that he loves George nearly as much as he does Mary. I could see that love plainly n his eyes along with pride when Carson shook the "young master's" hand.

I overheard Elsie Carson telling George that she could not believe he was now 19 year's old as it seemed like yesterday he was tugging on her skirt and asking if Mrs. Patmore were baking his favorite cookies that day. Then, I saw her hand George a box wrapped in silver foil. He made quick work of the wrapping, revealing a lovely pewter picture frame. A year ago I would have had no doubt that a photograph of Mary, Victoria and I would rest inside that frame, but now I wonder if we will be supplanted by another.

...

Anna and John Bates also made an appearance, which delighted Mary to no end as she has missed her Lady's maid and friend since she left Downton. The couple joined the celebration late and quickly apologized that they would not be able to stay long as they had a new hire manning the front desk of their small hotel. Robert beamed when he saw Mary and me chatting with the two and quickly joined us.

As my father-in-law stood next to his erstwhile valet, I could not help but notice Bates' hair was now as white as his. I took notice, too, that he relies much more heavily on his cane than he did when employed at Downton. The age difference between John and Anna is considerable and glaring when you see them standing side by side, but so is their commitment to one another. Then if not for the fact that she is much younger than her husband, they would not have had the joy of welcoming twin sons into the world the day before John Bates' 57th birthday.

Anna teases that she timed the births to coincide with her husband's special day as she knew it was the best gift she could give him. It is clear to me that happy day along with many others may not have taken place but for the efforts of my good friend from London, Joseph Cosgrove. The Scotland Yard detective was pivotal in proving the Bates innocent in the murder of Mr. Green, the man who had raped Anna nearly two decades ago. They as well as the Crawley family will be forever grateful for his hard work on our behalf and hold him in our highest esteem.

...

I know that Mrs. Carson had once advised Daisy to "Go as far in life as God and luck allow," and she has done just that as at present she is the owner of a thriving farm. No doubt Sara Bunting, who was once the maid's tutor, would be proud. Tom's friend with liberal views clearly did much more than aggravate Robert's ulcer during the time she spent at Downton. The teacher set Daisy on the right track, one she has never veered from.

When the maid turned cook arrived at Downton early this morning with George's favorite cake in her hands, Mary and I were both surprised and touched. Surprised that she would remember George's birthday and touched that the ingredients needed to bake it had to have taken a good chunk out of her food rations.

I remember how she wept when she learned she was the sole beneficiary of Mr. Mason's farm. "He told me I was the only person left on earth that was special to him," she said between sobs. Mrs. Patmore (God rest her soul) had nudged her assistant on more than one occasion to go to visit her father-in-law. And when Daisy finally did, her relationship with him blossomed into one that would have made his son William proud.

Though agriculture suffered badly during the Great Depression, Mason's farm kept afloat thanks to the contract Daisy secured with Tom's able assistance with the Bardney Canning Factory. The company began its operation by canning peas in 1933 and has expanded their product line ever since. Over the years, the ownership has changed hands but the contract with Mason's Farm has always been renewed. I have no doubt that is because each new owner has found Daisy Kent to be knowledgeable and honest in all her dealings.

Daisy Kent shared with Tom recently that the owner of the cannery prefers discussing business with her rather than her husband, although she can tell that the women who work at the factory are disappointed when she turns up instead of him, which came as no surprise to my brother-in-law or me.

...

Jimmy Kent, the footman who filled the gap when William had passed on, like Daisy, benefited from an inheritance. Rumor has it that Lady Anstruther felt responsible for Jimmy getting sacked from Downton and included the footman in her will to assuage her guilt. When the "merry widow" died from complications of pneumonia, Jimmy was notified that she had left him a tidy sum. He was interested in getting a return on that money when he and Alfred Nugent had a chance meeting in London and he learned of Daisy's good fortune.

The young widow was quite surprised when Jimmy showed up at Mason's Farm with a pocketful of cash and a desire to buy into Mason's. Whatever his motive was at the time of his arrival, Jimmy and Daisy were married six month's later. Thomas Barrow was enlisted as his best man and Alfred, a groomsman. Mrs. Patmore, Downton's head cook, served as Daisy's matron of honor, and Mr. Carson walked her down the aisle.

Jimmy's business investment has paid off nicely as has his personal collaboration with Daisy, the latter producing two lovely daughters with strawberry colored hair and freckles.

...

I wish that Alfred Nugent's story had such a happy ending. All who heard the news were shocked and saddened to learn that Alfred, yet another footman who had been employed at Downton, was among the 436 civilians killed in London on September 7th in the first Luftwaffe attack on the population at large.

Mary and I represented the family in attending the former footman's funeral service in Crewe. When we arrived, we spotted a clearly shaken Miss O'Brien consoling Alfred's mother. The woman who had served as lady's maid to my mother-in-law was surprised that we had come and offered us her sincere thanks.

When the service ended and we rose to leave, she requested a moment of our time and inquired after her Ladyship. Mary shared that her mother had been well and left it at that.

There is no doubt in my mind that she would have had more to say to Miss O'Brien if not for the present circumstances. Mary never forgave the maid's betrayal of her mother in quitting her mother's employ in favor of Lady Flintshire, her father's cousin.

As we drove home from the service, Mary and I reminisced about the day she had persuaded Mr. Carson to hire James Kent, the more handsome of the candidates for footman to be added to the staff, as Alfred resembled "a puppy rescued from a puddle."

The memory was bittersweet as she echoed Mr. Carson's parting words that day in the deepest voice she could muster, "But Alfred is very good, you know. He's very willing… even if he is Miss O'Brien's nephew."

My mother-in-law's replacement for Miss O'Brien has proved more loyal and a welcome addition to the household, especially for Mr. Molelsey. It is plain for all to see that he and Miss Baxter have cared deeply for each other for many years, but they never have joined the ranks of the servants who have tied the knot.

Mary learned recently from Thomas that Miss Baxter was never able to secure a divorce from her first husband and that is the reason she and Mr. Molesley remain unattached. We were both surprised to hear Miss Baxter was married, but Cora took the news in stride. Apparently, this is not the first secret that she has uncovered with regard to her lady's maid.

Thomas, too, has been acting very secretively as of late. Though, I hope that he continues whatever he has been up to as it has changed his disposition for the better. Molesley shared with Robert and me that Thomas has become friends with the owner of a bicycle shop in Thirsk and visits him regularly. He added there has been speculation among the servants as to whether those visits are the reason for the Head Butler's improved mood. Robert raised his eyebrows and smiled in my direction before cautioning Mr. Molelsey not to spread idle gossip.

...

The younger generation gathered to honor George was ably represented by a handful of chaps that he shared his first year at Oxford with combined with some of his mates from Eaton who chose Cambridge instead. George remarked how odd it felt at Oxford when he found himself opposing a former teammate from Eaton in a cricket match or race. All the young men present were the same age except for one, a Cambridge student who took leave from the university in his final year to join the Army.

I heard Mary gasp as if she had seen a ghost when she spotted the soldier being ushered into the Great Hall and it was plain to see why. It was only when the young man drew closer to us that Mary and I could see the subtle differences between Major Bryant and his son. We chatted briefly with Charles Bryant, II before George and Sybbie came to greet him and guide him into the Saloon.

Mother and Mrs. Hughes did not see eye to eye when it came to Ethel Parks' decision to give up her illegitimate son to his grandparents. In the end, the servant did relinquish Charles to the Bryants. There was no doubt that she did so in order to give him a better life than she could provide. Mrs. Bryant allowed Ethel a glimpse of her son now and then under the pretext that she was a former cook in their household, and she and Mr. Bryant honored Ethel's request that Charles never be told she was his mother.

I cannot help but think how unfair it is that Ethel Parks, alone, bore the consequence of her illicit union with Major Bryant, even having to prostitute herself in order to feed their child. Charles Bryant died in battle for king and country and I commend him for his service. Yet, the fact remains that he seduced a young woman far below his station in life and left her to fend for herself when he learned she was pregnant. Then he refused to acknowledge, much less support, his own child. As I see it, Ethel Parks is the hero of the two.

Charles Bryant, II became friends with George at Eaton when they were on the same crew in the Rowing Club. The two lost touch after Charles graduated but their friendship was renewed coincidentally through Sybbie. She met him at Oxford when he helped her recover some notes she had dropped that were being blown about by the wind and her connection to George came to light soon thereafter. I suspect that his presence tonight, however, had less to do with my son than his beautiful cousin as the young man spent more time with Sybbie than he did his Eaton mate.

I know that my mother would have been as impressed with Major Bryant and Ethel's son as Mary and I were had she been able to attend the party tonight. Unfortunately she could not come as she sprained her ankle yesterday and Richard still does not want her to put any weight on it.

The good doctor has proven to be a wonderful husband and I feel certain that Mother has no regrets that she broke her engagement to Lord Merton. Mary's Godfather is a fine man but his sons remain boorish snobs who would never have accepted Mother as Lord Merton's wife and made both his life and hers miserable had they married.

...

Leaving Sybbie and the young soldier to enjoy each others' company, I searched for George and found him sifting through the stack of records by the gramophone with Alison Cosgrove, Lilian and Joseph's daughter. I took a few steps toward them but my son's expression stopped me dead in my tracks. His eyes were fixed on the lovely young woman's face as though he were memorizing every detail of it.

It was not surprising to me to find that George found the Cosgrove's only child attractive as I doubt any young man wouldn't. She is every bit as lovely as her mother, having inherited her hazel gray eyes and ivory complexion, which are even more striking combined with her father's dark hair and stature.

Once Alsion looked up from the record in her hands, my son averted his eyes immediately. I could not help but smile as I remembered how many times I had managed to stay one step ahead of Mary in this manner. At least, I think I did. Looking beyond him and Alison, I found Mary standing about five feet away, her eyes fixed on our son and the object of his affection. She, no doubt, had just witnessed the same scene that I had as she shared my smile.

George put the record that Alison had chosen on the gramophone, then took her hand and led her into the center of the room to dance. As the first verse of Vera Lynn's rendition of "We'll Meet Again" reached my ears, it became clear why she had picked this particular song for George to play.

"We'll meet again...Don't know where, don't know when...But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day...Keep smiling through...Just like you always do...Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away...

The song reminded of the day Mary came to see me off at the Downton Station as I headed back to war. I remembered how heart broken I was when I caught a glimpse of her on the platform as the train pulled away, knowing I might never see her again. The memory drove me to be near her and I left George and Alison to their dance and set off to fulfill my mission.

Mary has always stood out in a crowd and tonight was no different. She looked stunning in the sleeveless, wine colored gown and bolero jacket that showcased her slender figure. No one who was not a close intimate of hers would guess she is nearing 50 year's of age. The only hint that she is old enough to be the mother of a 19 year-old are the few strands of grey that intertwine with her lovely chestnut locks.

As my beautiful wife honored me with our first dance tonight, she commanded the attention of many of the gentlemen in the room, most notably from Lord Gillingham, who followed her every step. That is, until he realized that I was watching him, whereby he returned his gaze immediately to his wife, Mabel.

At that exact moment, Mary drew my eyes back to her as she asked, "Have I told you lately how happy you make me?"

I smiled and replied, "I will remind you of that when you berate me in the middle of the night for stealing your bed covers."

"I think you had better," she retorted. "There is nothing worse than waking in the middle of the night chilled to the bone due to your thievery."

Mary flashed me a cheeky smile but it faded quickly and her mood turned dark. I searched her eyes and found that whatever she was pondering was causing her great distress.

"No, that is not true, Matthew," she said flatly, all levity gone from her voice. "There have been moments much worse than my sleep being disrupted by the cold and finding you wrapped in my blanket."

I wanted to stop dancing and lead her to a place where we could speak privately, but knew that if we walked off before the music ended, we would draw attention to ourselves.

"I have woken in middle of the night and reached for you but found you were not there. After a second or two, I would remember that you would never be there again, and then I would feel as though my heart were being ripped out of my chest."

There were many nights during the first few months after I returned to Downton that I would hear Mary call out my name or feel her reach across the bed to be certain she was not alone. Once she found purchase, she would apologize profusely for waking me. I would tell her there was no need to, and we would hold each other close the rest of the night.

More often than not, Mary's fear and my desire to give her comfort would lead to passion, and we would make love with the wild abandonment of those who realize there was no guarantee that this was not the last time.

Mary was silent for a few moments in deep thought. Then she said, "And I have woken in the middle of the night knowing that George was not asleep in his bed down the hall or at the university, but instead off at some training camp learning how to shoot Nazis out of the sky."

I wanted more than anything to take her in my arms at that very moment, but since that was not possible, I focused my attention on the only part of our bodies that touched and began circling my thumb over the top of her hand.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said softly. "I'm fine."

I nodded and smiled at Mary even though it was clear she was not.

...

Restless nights have plagued me, too, since I learned that George enlisted in the RAF. I often lie awake contemplating whether or not this war could have been avoided.

Winston Churchill said," Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it." There are many who believe his words ring true now.

In 1920 when the final tally of our losses in World War I was made public, we learned that close to one million who served in the Army were either killed in battle or lost to disease, 40,000 perished in the Royal Navy and RAF and two million returned home injured. Paraplegics and amputees were a common sight in 1919 as were men wearing tin masks to cover faces so badly disfigured that they would frighten children.

We also learned how war can cripple a nation's economy. It cost over £3 billion to keep the war machine running from 1914 to 1918, and taxes and war bonds alone did not cover the expense. We had no choice but to borrow to fill the gap and were heavily indebted to America by the end of the war.

No, I do not see this conflict rooted in our failure to learn from history as the consequences of what we now have labeled World War One led to our firm resolve that it be our last. The League of Nations was formed specifically to ensure countries would resolve their problems peacefully going forward. Yet no matter our good intentions, I can see now that the stage was set for this conflict even as the Treaty of Versailles was being signed.

I cannot help but play devil's advocate and ask myself if Britain were the defeated nation, would we have agreed to our Army being cut to 100,000, the British Navy to 36 ships, and our Air Force banned? Would we have considered £6.6 billion in war reparations fair? Would we not have balked at losing 13 per cent of our land and 12 per cent of our people? If we had learned that those who won the Great War had wanted to inflict further punishment upon us and were only denied doing so by majority rule, would we not have felt anger, bitterness, and resentment toward our conqueror.

I saw with my own eyes the devastation that the Germans caused and agree that their consequences should have been severe. Yet, if I put aside my emotions and rely solely on logic, I cannot help but acknowledge the part the treaty played in the Nazi party coming into power.

When the terms of the treaty became public, the German populace was outraged that it had been signed. They called those who did so the "November Criminals." It could be that the very instrument put in place to prevent another war led to one as it became the stepping stone for Hitler to win the hearts and minds of the German people.

...

Mary managed a weak smile as she took my arm and guided me to the red sofa that Cora and Robert were sharing with Tom and his wife, Catherine. If memory serves me, this particular chair has been reupholstered at least twice because my father-in-law has refused to replace it. His reluctance to part with any object associated with the past has been maddening at times. Tonight, however, I am glad he did not part with this one as it is familiar when so much else is not.

If memory serves me correctly, some year's ago, Mr. Carson discovered George, who had a knack of escaping his Nanny's watchful eye, making use of this sofa as a springboard to propel himself into the air. Fortunately his daring solo flight didn't result in any serious injury as the head butler caught him before gravity took over.

From our position on the sofa, I was glad to see that Tony and Mabel were leaving early as I was hard-pressed not to privately call Lord Gillingham out on his behavior. If it weren't for the fact that his daughter Gertrude is such good friends with Victoria, I would have been inclined to permanently remove his name from our guest list. But taking my daughter's feelings into consideration, I had no choice but to join Mary in seeing them off.

As we made our way toward the Foyles, I noticed that Evelyn Napier was watching Mary closely, too, but with a much different look in his eyes than Tony Foyle's. The Viscount of Branksome relinquished the torch he carried for my Mary a long time ago, and his eyes were filled with nothing but admiration for his old friend and sister-in-law.

..

It seems Evelyn was destined to marry one of the Crawley girls as he and Edith will be celebrating their 14th wedding anniversary this year. Many in the family were surprised that he had chosen her to become his wife because he had shown little interest in Edith into the mid 1920s. In retrospect, I think that was partially due to his loyalty to my wife.

I learned early on in my relationship with Mary that Evelyn was aware that Edith wrote the letter to the Turkish Ambassador which fueled the rumors surrounding Mr. Pamuk's death. And I would imagine that Edith's betrayal of her sister along with her general disposition at that time, greatly influenced Evelyn's negative opinion of her.

It is my belief that that opinion held until he returned to Downton after spending a lengthy period abroad. Once back, he found Edith a changed woman, stronger and more confident in herself. And it no doubt eased his mind to find that by then the ice between Edith and Mary had thawed.

I was not present when the incident took place that forever changed Mary's relationship with her sister, but have heard the story enough times to know it by heart. During a family picnic at the lake, George and Sybbie were taking turns tossing a ball to Horus. The Labrador was giving them a merry chase before he dropped the ball back at their feet to start the game anew. The children's Nanny was in close range of her charges while Mary, eight month's pregnant with Victoria, looked on from the picnic site with Mother about 10 feet away.

Edith was picking wildflowers with Marigold nearby when a quick series of events turned the family outing into a nightmare. Sybbie tripped and fell while chasing Horus which prompted Nanny to pick her off the ground and examine her for any injury. While she was tending to Sybbie, George continued chasing Horus closer and closer to the lake. This time, when the little chap threw the ball, it rolled into the water and the dog jumped in to retrieve it. George was unable to stop his forward momentum and toppled into the lake after him.

Mary watched the horrific scene unfold and was helpless to stop it. She rose as quickly as she could in her condition and ran toward the lake as did Mother, but Edith was already there. She, too, was watching the children, and as soon as she saw George heading for the lake, she sent Marigold to Nanny in order to rescue him.

I shudder to think of what could have happened to George if his aunt had not dived into the water seconds after he did. Mary said that it felt as though time had stood still until she saw Edith emerge with George in her arms. He was sobbing and coughing, clearly shaken by what had taken place. But miraculously he had not swallowed a great deal of water.

Mother called Richard as soon as she returned to the house and he came immediately to examine George. Fortunately, he found no signs of drowning present and assured us our son was fine. Both I and Mary let out a collective sigh of relief. Then she whispered to me that she was glad Isobel had married Dr. Clarkson instead of her Godfather, as Lord Merton would have been too busy quoting what he read about drowning to be of any real help.

My sister-in-law came to George's room after changing into dry clothes and having comforted Marigold and Sybbie (who were quite worried about their cousin.) Mary left my side as soon as she saw her and pulled her into what I would imagine was only the second embrace in both their lives. When they broke apart, I joined Mary in thanking Edith. By then, George's trembling had begun to subside and he shouted, "Thank you, Andith." And that moniker has been his special name for my sister-in-law ever since.

I imagine that the change in the way Mary and Edith interacted in public allowed Evelyn to entertain the possibility of a relationship with Edith, even if only one of friendship. In 1926, he was one of the most influential and admired MPs and Edith the head of a thriving publishing company. They both were successful in their respective positions, affluent and listed in Burkes.

As if these commonalities were not sufficient, Edith and Evelyn shared the misfortune of failed romances and were eager for a successful relationship. Violet suggested that Edith not let any grass grow under Evelyn Napier's feet after he proposed to her. But her advice proved unnecessary as Evelyn insisted on a short engagement and he and Edith tied the knot three months after he proposed.

...

It seems impossible at times that Cousin Violet is no longer with us as she seemed larger than life. The Dowager Countess was fierce, especially when it came to protecting those she loved. On one side of the coin, she was opinionated, obstinate, sarcastic and manipulative; while on the other, intelligent, witty, kind, and generous.

During her long life, Violet Crawley gave freely of her advice, her time, and her love. If not for her intervention, I doubt that Robert and Cora's marriage would have survived Sybil's death. Mr. Molesley would have been conscripted into service during World War I, his life put in grave peril if not for her informing Dr. Clarkson that he had a problem with his lungs. Had she not petitioned Richard on his behalf, William would have died in a hospital in Leeds surrounded by strangers instead of at Downton with his father and wife at his bedside. In fact, the former footman would not have had a wife at all if not for her as Mr. Travis had balked at performing the ceremony and only relented when the Dowager Countess reminded him of was who buttering his bread.

Violet was the voice of reason as well as an ally to me when I discovered that Downton was being mismanaged and sought her guidance. I can hear her now telling me in no uncertain terms that I must do what was best for Downton though many noses would "be out of joint."

Family always held the trump card for the Dowager. As far back as when she discovered Mary's involvement with Pamuk, she did not judge her. Instead, she looked for a way to shield her eldest granddaughter from the pain of scandal. The same held true when she learned that Marigold was Edith's child. Violet accepted that her loved ones behaved badly at times. A pragmatist, she accepted what could not be changed and did what was possible to minimize the fallout.

Most of all, I will be forever grateful for the role she played in my marrying Mary.

When Violet came to my room to tell me that Mary was still in love with me, I found I could no longer deny my feelings for her. I had convinced myself while convalescing at Downton that she took charge of my care because she pitied me. But once I learned Mary felt more that sorrow for my predicament, my engagement to Lavinia rested on shaky ground. It crumbled beneath my feet the night before my wedding as I divulged my true feelings to Mary and we kissed. I will always regret that Lavinia was witness to that moment. But never that kiss.

In her unorthodox visit to my bedroom, Violet advised me, "You will live 40 or 50 years with one of these women. Make sure you choose the right one." I am very glad that she lived to see that I did.

In October of 1930, the woman who I often compared to a force of nature quietly passed away in her bed. It was fitting that my mother, who had come to be her closest friend and companion in spite of their opposing views, was with her at the end.

Mother had insisted on spending the night at the Dower House when Violet complained of mild chest discomfort despite Richard's finding her heartbeat strong when he examined her. The Dowager insisted the reason for her pain was the new cook's recipe for lamb stew and demanded her good friend stop fussing over her so that she could get some rest. Then she retired for the night.

When my mother entered her room the next morning, Violet at first appeared still asleep. However, upon drawing closer to the bed she discovered her long-time companion and sparring partner had passed. She was happy to find that Violet left this earth with a smile on her face and her own mimicked it upon discovering the reason it was there. Pressed between Violet's hands was a photograph of a very young Robert and Rosamund in a Faberge' frame.

...

Mary and I were in America with George and Victoria when Violet took her last breath. We had made the trip across the Atlantic to first visit Mary's Grandmother and Uncle Harold in Newport and then went on to Chicago to attend the World's Fair. As I recall it, the exhibitions were touted as the presentation of "A Century of Progress." And I must say they were aptly named.

When we learned of Violet's death, we booked passage on the first ship we could find, a French liner that would be leaving from New York in two days. Victoria, then only 11 years old was quite reluctant to leave as she was quite taken with the "Enchanted Island" exhibit. But she relented when she saw how anxious her Mama was to return home.

Although we could not arrive in time for Violet's funeral service, Mary's return was clearly a comfort to Robert, as I believe mine was to my own dear mother. We were welcomed warmly, too, by Edith and Evelyn as both were needed back in London but had delayed their departure until we got back so that Robert and Cora received adequate support. The Napier family left the morning after our arrival satisfied that the Earl and Countess of Grantham were left in capable and loving hands.

George and Victoria were disappointed that their cousins could not stay at Downton longer. They missed Marigold since she moved to London and enjoyed spending time with Vivienne and Alexander, Edith and Evelyn's children by marriage, as well. As for their eldest daughter, no one who has seen the family together would guess that Marigold is not Evelyn's biological child as he dotes on her as much as he does the children that Edith bore him.

Edith's husband confessed that he had suspected that Marigold was her child from the first moment he laid eyes on her, unlike our father-in-law, who lived in denial of the strong resemblance between mother and daughter for quite some time. It was difficult for Robert to accept that his daughter had a child out of wedlock. However, as he did with Mary when he learned of her dalliance with Pamuk, he forgave his second daughter's indiscretion because his love for her far outweighed his disappointment.

I have wondered over the years if I had not lost my memory the day George was born, if Edith would have been saved the heartache of giving up her child as she did to prevent a scandal.

I know I would have done everything in my power to prevent Michael Gregson from continuing his relationship with my sister-in-law after learning that he was married. Yet if I had managed to break them apart, Marigold would not exist. And that would be a tragedy.

I am not sure whether it was Robert or Evelyn who was more put out when they discovered Marigold dancing with Jeremy Butler, a friend of George from Oxford's University Air Squadron Though there was no doubt that the two were equally pleased when the dance came to an end.

Then it was my turn to brood as the young man claimed Victoria for the next dance. Mary teased that I looked like a farmer protecting his hen house from a stray wolf. And I likely did, as I kept a close eye on the amount of space between my daughter and her partner. Then I noticed Tom motioning Sybbie to his side and could not help but chuckle.

...

I was quite relieved that Tom decided to shelve his plans to live in America though I could relate to why he was contemplating the move as I, too, have struggled at times with the life I was not born to. I shared with Tom what made it easier for me to cope with my change in circumstance since receiving the Earl of Grantham's letter that fateful day in Manchester.

My suggestion to him was that he capitalize on his status as Robert's son-in-law in righting what he saw wrong in society. I used the Law of Property Act that was passed in 1925 as an example of how persistence and the right connections could bring about great change in society.

It took over a decade, but the entail that prevented anyone but the future Earl of Grantham from inheriting Robert's estate was abolished. Although the title will still be passed on to Robert's male heirs, it is no longer linked to his estate.

My pitch over, I was relieved to see a glint in Tom's eyes that I had not seen before. My final words on the subject detailed the laws that were being considered in Parliament that I knew would be of interest to him along with the part Evelyn and I played in getting them to the floor for a vote.

Then our conversation turned to Sybil. We each speculated on what her reaction would be to this changing world if she were still with us. Tom said he was certain she would have rejoiced that all women could now vote. I countered that she would have rejoiced that corsets were no longer worn.

My brother-in-law laughed and said that was true because she had always hated them. Spotting Sybbie's stuffed mouse on the floor, he picked it up and added that he believed Sybil would have been as enamored with Mickey as their daughter was as she found fantasy a welcome escape from the harsh realities of the real world. He became quiet then, staring blankly at the cartoon character as his eyes welled with tears.

Mary often asked Tom to join her in a walk when his loss would get the best of him, especially when Sybbie was near. But though my wife's devotion and support helped him, it was not until Tom met Lilian Pomeroy's sister that his heart began to truly mend.

...

Catherine Moore left Cork in 1928 to start a new life for herself and her two year-old son, both having been abandoned by her husband when the child still an infant. Due to her circumstances, Catherine was able to petition the Catholic Church for an annulment of her marriage. And once done, she joined Lilian in London. Like her sister, she chose nursing as her vocation and with her sibling's help, secured a position at the London Hospital.

Tom was introduced to Catherine and her son Daniel at George's 7th birthday party. Mary had insisted Lilian bring her sister and nephew with her to share in the festivities so that the family could meet them. No doubt romance was the last thing on Tom and Catherine's mind that day when they were asked to take charge of "Pin the Tail on the Donkey." Yet when Tom noticed Lilian's comely sister tending to Sybbie's braid, cupid hit its mark. And the two were married a few months later.

Catherine was warmly welcomed into the family by all of us who loved Sybil as we were certain she would not have wanted Tom to be alone. And after we got to know her, all were in complete agreement that she would not only make him happy but be a loving stepmother to Sybbie.

Tom did not want to live at Downton with Catherine as it was the home he shared with Sybil. Fortunately his dilemma was solved quickly by my mother-in-law, who suggested to her husband that he offer the couple the Dower House.

Thinking Cora's suggestion an excellent idea, Robert presented it to Tom and Catherine upon their return from their honeymoon, adding he believed it would make his mother happy in her final resting place to see children running through the halls as she had been so fond of them in life. And that is exactly what we Crawleys found when we paid the Bransons our first visit in their new home.

No sooner had our small group entered the house than we found Daniel rushing toward us with glee. Then we all erupted in laughter as the little boy, no doubt at the urging of his new step-sister, greeted the Earl of Grantham with, "Hello, Donk."

...

The sound of children's laughter as well as tears has filled the halls of Downton since we are housing 10 ranging in age from 3 to 11 who have been evacuated from London in "Operation Pied Piper." Each one arrived on our doorstep with a suitcase and government issued gas mask, which is a reminder of the madness that has overtaken us.

The program operates under the auspices of the Ministry of Health and has been responsible for thousands of London's children being moved from the city to the safety of the countryside. Mary and Edith have worked closely with the government officials responsible for transporting the children. And Mr. Molesley, on leave from his teaching position in the Village, is ensuring the children do not fall behind in their studies while tutoring them a few hours a day.

I think the younger children have had an easier time with their transition because they do not comprehend why they are here and have no real concept of time. The older ones, however, are aware that they could easily lose their parents in one of the bombing raids that wreak havoc on London daily.

Their apprehension and sadness is heart- wrenching to witness. To be sure, the only time they truly look peaceful is when they are asleep. And I was grateful that sleep was not disturbed by the sounds emanating from the party two stories below their bedrooms.

Although Downton was filled tonight with our family and dear friends, some were conspicuously missing. This is the first Crawley event of importance that has not been attended by the Heads or Cosgroves in nearly two decades, and they were sorely missed.

...

The bond that I formed with my neurologist, Henry, and his gracious wife Ruth while I suffered amnesia was strong enough to stand the test of time. The two took on the role of family for me after I was released from the London Hospital. And they, along with Joseph and Lilian, have participated in countless Crawley celebrations from Rose's presentation at Buckingham Palace in 1923 to George's graduation from Eaton last year.

It is hard to believe that 17 years have passed since Rose made her debut in London. I remember clearly that Dr. Head was not impressed when he noticed he was sharing the dance floor with royalty as well as his telling me when the music stopped that his only concern throughout the Waltz was that he not step on my Mother's feet. I chuckled at that before Henry put an abrupt stop to my levity by adding "It is difficult for someone with Parkinson's to glide gracefully."

That was how Henry chose to inform me that he was ill. Ruth told me years later that he kept the news from me as long as possible since he knew what my reaction would be. Always selfless, he did not want to take away from my joy at being reunited with my family at Downton.

The entire Crawley family attended Lilian and Joseph's wedding, including George who was enlisted to serve as the ring bearer. The congregation that gathered to witness the two become man and wife appeared entranced with our little chap waddling down the aisle. All down to Mary, who leaning out of one of the pews near the altar beckoned him to join her.

As I made my way to join Mary after adjusting Joseph's tie, I overheard a woman behind me remark that she had never laid eyes upon such a beautiful child. I then noticed that many in the crowd shared her sentiment and were fixated on George. I beamed with pride as I reached Mary But she, although delighted that our son was being admired, worried that George might steel Lilian's thunder.

Once the bride came into view, however, Mary's fear was allayed. Lilian never looked more beautiful. And as she made her way to the altar on Henry's arm, she quickly became the center of attention.

Henry's disease was in its early stages and only those who knew him well noticed his gait was off. It is ironic that she became his final study, meticulously recording each of his symptoms with the hope it would help others down the line. No doubt there were times he wished Dr. Rivers, who had worked with him for three years in their study on nerve regeneration, could have been there at his side.

I am certain that his assistance would especially have been appreciated when Henry's hand tremors made it impossible for him to write. That became one of Ruth's duties, along with a variety of other tasks that she took upon herself to make life easier for Henry.

When her husband required more care than she could give without assistance, Ruth found herself in a quandary. She knew Henry was uncomfortable with strangers seeing him in his condition. Yet she was near exhaustion. During one of our phone conversations, she shared her dilemma with me. And I advised her to broach the subject with Lilian, who I hoped could recommend someone Henry was familiar with at the London Hospital to be of assistance.

Lilian provided Ruth with more than a recommendation. Shortly thereafter, she and Joseph moved into the Heads' home in Eaton Square so that Henry could receive the care he needed without feeling self-conscious. I think Lilian and Joseph's only concern at that time was Henry's welfare. It is clear now that neither of them gave any thought to the length of time they would spend living with the Heads. They would stay until no longer needed.

The criteria for their moving never met, Joseph and Lilian still reside in Eaton Square 15 years later, though sadly they have shared their home this past year with Henry, alone.

Joseph called to relay the sad news that Ruth had died on the same day Prime Minister Chamberlain announced on the BBC that "a state of war existed between Britain and Germany." Mary and I traveled to London immediately to offer Henry our support on what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life. We found him strapped in his wheelchair for his safety, the progression of his disease on full display and heartbreaking to witness.

Though we were accustomed to his jerky motions and nervous ticks, this was the first time we saw Henry's face rigid, appearing as though set in a mask. Knowing how fond Mary was of Henry, I assumed it very difficult for her to see him in this state. And my assumption was proven to be correct by her sharp intake of breath and slow exhalation before she crossed the room to join the man who had saved me in Whitechapel many years ago.

I looked on as my darling wife dropped to one knee in front of Henry's chair and took his trembling hands between her own. Then she looked into his eyes and said softly, "I know." Henry squeezed her hand, one tear escaping those that had welled in his eyes. And Mary did not let go of him until Lilian asked her to rise so that she could administer his medication. I pulled Mary close and kissed the top of her head as I wondered, and not for the first time, how it were possible that I could love her more.

Whitechapel has born a heavy brunt of the German bombing as the Luftwaffe initially targeted London's seaports, leaving many docks burned to the ground. Subsequently, the flat that Lilian called home when she treated me as Patient #9 at the London Hospital has been flattened as are many that surrounded it.

Even Whitechapel Road, which runs directly in front of the hospital, has been destroyed by a direct hit. If not for the firemen Churchill has called, "heroes with dirty faces," this community, along with countless others, would undoubtedly be reduced to ashes by now.

Lilian is torn between the duty she feels she owes to the London Hospital and her loyalty to Henry. She is aware of the shortage of nurses due to the ever mounting civilian casualties. At the same time, Lilian cannot leave Henry as his condition has deteriorated.

Joseph is busier than ever at Scotland Yard tracking down dealing with the criminals who take advantage of the daily raids to loot businesses as well as tracking down German spies. My prayers are with the Cosgrove, And my fervent hope is that they will safely ride out this storm. Unlike Cousin Rosamund, who has taken up permanent residence at Downton since the bombings began, they have vowed to remain.

My two dear friends have told me that their plight is made easier knowing their only child is safe at Downton, especially now since Belgravia has been attacked. Five days ago, Buckingham Palace was bombed.

The attack prompting Queen Elizabeth to declare, "I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face."

And life goes on.

...

I could tell how thrilled Cora was tonight to have all her grandchildren under Downton's roof to celebrate George's birthday, her lovely smile widening as she viewed each of the gifts the second generation of Crawley children had picked for their cousin.

Marigold chose "Finnegan's Wake," no doubt knowing of George's fondness for James Joyce. Vivienne gave her cousin a camel colored cashmere scarf and Alexander, a silver flask engraved with George's initials (which was no doubt procured for him by Evelyn.) Sybbie catered to his sweet tooth by giving George a tin filled with wrapped Cadbury chocolate squares, almost impossible to find these days.

I saw Victoria approach her brother with what appeared to me at first to be a letter in her hand. As I drew closer, I could see that the cream colored parchment contained words written in calligraphy and in the center of the page, a large "V".

Then George read out loud the excerpt of Prime Minister Churchill's address which Victoria had so beautifully transcribed for him.

"You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival."

There was silence in the room for a few moments as we took in Churchill's eloquent words. Then George made his way to his sister and pulled her into a quick embrace that prompted more than one onlooker to dab their eyes, especially Mary.

I pulled my wife close and swallowed hard as I heard George tell Victoria that her gift would not leave his pocket until this war was won.

And as I watched the scene before me unfold, I knew this was the reason we had done everything in our power to avoid this war. Yet at the same time, the reason we must fight it.

...

I know now that Robert's choice of a name for the Labrador that would become George's constant companion was not only appropriate, but uncanny, as "Horus," the son of the Egyptian goddess Isis, is also the god of the sky.

George said he had hoped I did not feel disrespected that he chose to enlist in the RAF instead of the Army as I had. Quickly, I assured my son that was not the case, adding that I believed his choice was destined from the moment we attended our first Hendon Air Show together when he was four year's old.

I will never forget the look of awe on his face when a fleet of biplanes flew overhead in formation. That Christmas, his Hornby electric train set collected dust as his favorite toy was a small model plane called a FROG, aptly named as it "flew right off the ground."

George's fascination with planes and air flight grew as he did and has never wavered. He realized his dream of flying when he joined the Oxford University Air Squadron only a month after he entered Kings College. His voice would be filled with excitement when he would call home on weekends after one of his flying lessons, leading Mary and I to conclude that George would eventually enlist in the RAF. But up until the time Britain was attacked, he honored our request that he would remain in school until conscripted.

At that time there were many at home and abroad that referred to the state of affairs with Germany as "the phony war" since the Germans had managed their conquests in Europe with no major battles and Britain had not been engaged at all. That all changed on July 10th, when one of our shipping convoys was attacked by Luftwaffe fighters and bombers in the channel. When Mr. Barrow called me out of the library that evening as I had a phone call from George, I knew we could no longer hold him back.

…

The party came to an end about 12:30. And I was glad when I bid the last guest who was departing a safe trip home as I was anxious to see Mary. She had already retired to our bedroom and was no doubt waiting up for me and the item she had requested I bring her.

I found my lovely wife sitting at her vanity rubbing cream into her hands when she noticed me enter the room with her childhood good luck charm in my own. Mary rose quickly, making her way to me with a gleam in her eyes.

"You found it!" she exclaimed with glee. Then she threw her arms around my neck.

"My darling, surely you are feigning surprise. You must have known that I would," I replied.

"Perhaps I did, but I am still quite happy to see it," she countered.

She stared then at the tiny stuffed dog in my hand for a long moment before taking it. Seeing her expression change, I could tell she was thinking of the day she gave it to me for luck as well as the reason she was holding it now.

"I cannot lose him, Matthew," she said emphatically. "I know that I simply could not bear it because the pain of losing you is still vivid in my memory."

I pulled Mary into my arms and guided her head to the spot directly over my heart.

"I know this is hell, darling, and I wish that I could promise you that you have nothing to fear. But if I did, I would be lying to you…and that is something I will never do. Yet I implore you to not lose sight of the fact that whatever the future brings, you will not face it alone. I believe with all my heart that our strength combined will withstand whatever may come. And I want very much for you to believe that, too."

Mary lifted her head and pushed back a stray strand of my hair that had fallen onto my forehead before she replied, "Well, since your strength has enabled you to turn back the Grim Reaper, I think perhaps I should believe you." Then, she kissed me and headed off to bed.

...

After making sure that my better half was sleeping soundly, I crept down the hall to George's room. I was fairly certain he, too, would be asleep as the party had lasted late into the night. But I felt compelled to see him safe and sound in his room one last time before he would join the battle.

The door squeaked ever so slightly as I opened it. And as I cursed it under my breath, George's voice rang out.

"Father?"

I think perhaps that the reason I recollect all the words that followed is because I feared this might be the last conversation we would have under this roof. Even now, I fear that it might be so.

I apologized for waking him and he said no apology was necessary as he had not been able to fall asleep, claiming he was still wound up from the excitement of the party.

"Quite understandable," I said as though I believed that were the reason he was still awake.

After a brief silence, George cleared his throat and then went on to say, "Father, I know that we will have time to talk during the car ride to Catterick in the morning. But I was hoping to find a moment where we could do so privately…And if you aren't dreadfully tired, this seems like a good opportunity."

Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, I replied, "I think the excitement of the party is affecting me, as well. I am not tired at all," I said with conviction, stifling a yawn. "And I would be happy to speak with you as long as you like."

I saw George smile then by the light of the moon coming through the window. And though I cannot deny he does resemble me in many ways, his smile is Mary's.

Leaning forward toward me, he began with the question, "Have you fulfilled your mission in finding the toy dog that Mother gave you when you went off to battle?"

"How did you….?"

"I guess what Uncle Tom says is true," George replied before I could finish my question. "He has told me that I am quite clever as I am the byproduct of two intelligent people."

I could not help but chuckle then, "Leave it to your Uncle Tom to describe you as a byproduct. I think he has spent way too many hours in agricultural meetings."

We both laughed heartily. And then the expression on his face changed. I could tell by it that our conversation was about to turn serious.

"I want you to know that the flight commander who has been training me these last three months has told me that I have been his best pupil."

"I would not have expected otherwise," I said.

"I am not telling you this because I am bragging about my skills, Father. The only reason I have mentioned my commander's praise at all is because it is important to me that you know I will have a very good shot at surviving this war."

My eyes began to sting and I swallowed hard, determined that I would not allow anything further until I left the room.

"I know you are no braggart, George. And it makes me very happy to know that you are confident that you will return to us…Very happy, indeed."

"I need you to know, too, that if against the odds I do not make it back home, that I have thanked God many times that you did not die in that accident the day I was born...because you have been the most wonderful father a son could ever hope for."

I was still determined that I would remain composed for George. But my son did not make it easy.

"George…."

"Please, Father, let me finish. I know I have been doing most of the talking ...but there is just a bit more I need to say."

I nodded my head and said softly, "By all means, go on then."

"If the worst does happen, I want you to tell Mother that I admire her strength and determination to succeed no matter what," he blurted. "...And tell her that I love her dearly…as I do you and Victoria. I would like her to know that there has not been a day since she was born that I have not been grateful that she was my sister."

He smiled then and added, "Well, perhaps I was not glad of it the day she broke the wing off the Spirit of '76 model that took me a week to assemble."

At that, we both laughed. And I did my best to continue the lightened mood.

"I will, of course, honor your request, George. But I feel confident in lieu of your exceptional skills that I will not have to relay your messages."

George smiled once more before taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.

"I have spoken to Uncle Tom regarding Charles Bryant as it is obvious he is head over heels for Sybbie…Charles is a gentleman who comes from good stock and I believe his intentions toward her are honorable. I did not want Uncle Tom to lose any sleep over him," he explained. "...And Charles and Sybbie have something very sad in common as he, too, never knew his mother. She died when he was a baby...although Charles wasn't as fortunate as Sybbie in having a loving father like Uncle Tom. His own was killed at the Front in World War I. Charles was raised by his grandparents," he finished on a solemn note.

At that moment, I felt as if Downton had come full circle.

As if remembering one last thing he had to relay to me, George spat out, "And, I need to tell you to keep a close watch on Jeremy Butler should he ever come to visit Downton. I spoke to him about the attention he paid to Victoria at the party this evening as I have found him to be somewhat cavalier in his dealings with young women. Rest assured, Father, that I made it abundantly clear I would not tolerate him treating my sister in that manner... Still, you must be vigilant."

I assured him that he had no need to worry on that score. Then I heard him yawn.

"I am more tired than I thought," he declared before jockeying about on the mattress in search of a comfortable position to lie down.

Once found, he sighed and said, "Good Night, Father. I'll see you in the morning."

Grateful that I would, I rose slowly, taking one more look at him.

"Good Night, George. Sleep well."

And then I left the room, closing the door softly behind me.

...

I have spent a considerable amount of time walking down memory lane this past week. And even now images of George still fill my thoughts. I see him as a newly born baby looking up at me with a quizzical expression on his face as I introduce myself to him, a toddler with fair hair and blue eyes grasping hold of his Mama's necklace, a young boy waving excitedly to Mary and me from the window in his room on his first day at Eaton.

The entire walk back to car, we second guessed our decision to leave him at the school. And only did so because we could not deny his attendance would benefit him as the next Earl of Grantham. Now there is no certainty that he will ever be.

As I break from writing, the details surrounding the clay horse in my storage chest comes to the forefront of my mind. I was in the library reading through a tenant contract when Mary brought then five-year old George in to deliver his birthday gift to me. My beautiful wife took a seat and smiled in my direction while George remained in the spot where he and his Mama had parted.

"Go ahead, darling," she said to our little chap. "Give your Papa the present you made for him."

George appeared somewhat anxious as he handed me the box he held in his hand. I commented on how lovely it was wrapped. And he smiled at Mary before telling me that she had helped him with that. Carefully, I removed the bow and wrapping and placed both on my desk for safe keeping. Then, I opened the box and lifted the clay horse out of it. As I eyed it over, George asked nervously, "Do you like it, Papa?"

The horse appeared to have five legs (although Mary explained to me later that what seemed a fifth leg was the horse's tail) and one of its ears stood higher than the other. Yet I considered it the most beautiful piece of art in the entirety of Downton and I told George as much.

"I told you Papa would love it, George," Mary said as she joined us and kissed the top of his head.

George smiled widely beaming with pride. And as he did, I noticed he had lost another tooth.

The sun will be up in less than two hours. I would not bother retiring at all since there is precious little time left to sleep before morning begins in earnest. The only reason I will slip into bed is so Mary will find me at her side when she opens her eyes.

We will dress and join the family for breakfast Then Tom will bring the car around to drive George and us to Catterick. I am glad that Mary suggested he take on his old role as chauffeur for us one last time for this special trip as he has a way of lightening the general mood when the need arises. And no doubt it will today.

I have dreaded this moment ever since George informed us of his assignment. Dreaded it, feared it, and done everything in my power to not dwell on it. But, I have failed miserably. I can hear Dr. Rivers, the psychiatrist who treated me when I suffered amnesia, telling me I must find a way to accept that which is beyond my control. "If not your life will be diminished by anger, frustration and fear," he cautioned.

This past week, I have found myself in the throes of all three, and it has taken a herculean effort on my part to hide my distress from Mary and George.

It frustrates me to no end that my age and the damage my spine sustained at Amiens prevents me from active duty. I know now some of what Robert felt when he was denied service in 1914.

It seems my only contribution to this war will be the food that our farms provide to the military and shelter to some of the displaced children of London. That is, with the exception of George. And truth be told, I cannot claim that contribution as mine alone as I share it with Mary.

We two have provided the War Department with a valuable commodity since it is their firm belief that that the Battle of Britain will be won or lost in the skies overhead. The role that George will play in the outcome of that battle has instilled anxiety in me that I have not known since I found I had no feeling in my legs.

I am filled with anger, too. It simmers near boil ready to overflow each time I hear the projected tally of those killed that day in a bombing raid on London. I find myself in its grip when I pass by a recruiting station and see the young faces of those enlisting as I am reminded that this war, like those in the past, will be fought by many who have barely reached adulthood.

I can become easily enraged when the Chancellor of Germany becomes the topic of conversation because I have read Mein Kampf and can see its contents coming to life. German Jews have been stripped of their citizenship and there are Polish prisoners singled out by the Star of David. I have no doubt should Germany win this war, countless innocents will suffer because of their heritage, and I cannot help but fear for those I love who share Cora's bloodline. Hitler must be stopped.

The change that is upon us now may prove to be the most difficult to navigate by far. Not only do we face each day with our country at battle and under siege but must go through the motions of daily life knowing our son is at risk of losing his. Thankfully we do not face these horrors alone.

Tom will wait in the car while Mary and I share our remaining moments with our son. She will press the tiny stuffed dog into his hand as she did mine. And George will thank her before he places it in his jacket pocket beside Victoria's gift. Mary will ask that he bring it back to her without a scratch and our son will promise to do his best to honor her request. The two will share a private moment that will end with Mary placing a kiss on George's cheek and wishing him, "such good luck." She will turn quickly then so he will not see her tears and head back to the car and Tom's support.

I will grasp George's hand in mine and tell him that I could not be more proud of him. We will stay locked that way until we have had enough time to read the unspoken words in each others' eyes.

And then, I will let go.

...

If not for Mary's request, I would be lying beside her at this very moment relishing her company and the comfort of our bed instead of hunched over this desk with pen in hand. I must thank her when we are, once again, able to speak of more than war and George because her request led me to find exactly what I needed.

On this most difficult day, I can see clearly that the common theme in these many pages has been change. Some change has been welcome and some has not, but no matter which, it has been constant. That gives me hope as this, too, shall pass.

Knowing the Battle of Britain was close at hand, Winston Churchill said,"Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, 'This was their finest hour.'

Let us now begin to fill the minutes.

No doubt when this chapter of my and Mary's story comes to an end, we will wish it could be edited. Yet no matter how our story unfurls, I have faith that together we will find a way to turn the page.

...

AN: Thoughts? Reviews make my day.

Just this week there was an article in news of woman who woke (that was supposedly dead) in a funeral home. Matthew's survival is based on fact and could be cannon. Writing this story took months so I would truly appreciate a review.

I am going to be posting some one shots that will take place during 20 year period from the time Matthew returned to Mary in this AU. I hope you will follow me so you will not miss any of them.

My goal from the start of this tale has been to prove Matthew could have survived his accident and to bring him back to those he loves. I think I have completed my mission.

Only the Downton characters and those from Eaton Square are fictional Dr. Head and Rivers and, obviously, Winston Churchill are not. The events that do not directly pertain to Downton are historical facts.

I thank my tumblr friend, americangirl for jumping in as my beta at a moment's notice. Although she was not given much time, she gave me very sound advice.

Disclaimer: I give Julian Fellowes full credit for the characters he created that are part of Patient #9 and the rest goes to me.

I am msmenna on tumblr, too.


	2. October 30th 1921

October 30th, 1921

This morning I awoke to the glorious sight of sunlight pouring through the high open windows across the room in rows of incandescent rays. For a brief moment in time as I lay transfixed by the unearthly display before me, I wondered if I had died and were in heaven. Then I heard a gagging sound to my left and my attention was diverted to Henry Wheeler heaving the contents of his stomach into a metal basin. That set me straight.

Fourteen hours have passed since poor Henry failed in his attempt to hold down a meal. He and the nurse who must attend his needs have my unending sympathy. I am fortunate in that my body tolerates the medication prescribed to me very well. So well, in fact, that Dr. Head deemed me able to get out of bed today. Though I still cannot walk without assistance due to the length of time I have been off my feet and get lightheaded if I move too quickly, I was able to sit upright in a wheelchair for the majority of the morning without too much distress.

This accomplishment resulted in my being able to enjoy the sunshine that trickles into the ward first hand as I was permitted to spend a few hours in the lovely courtyard that sits behind the hospital. It was there that a tiny piece of the puzzle which is my life fell into place.

As I seamlessly glided the wheelchair across the pavement (at times too swiftly for Nurse Pomeroy's liking) and stopped it quickly when prompted, it became apparent that I must have spent a considerable amount of time prior to this in the metal contraption.

Dr. Head visited me after my outing (and reading a report of my activity) to let me know he was even more convinced that I had a pre-existing injury to my back. He went on to say that based on my prowess in navigating the wheelchair, he believed it had been severe enough to cause temporary paralysis in the lower half of my body for a substantial amount of time.

Paralysis. That is a lot to take in. This morning I knew nothing about my life prior to the time I opened my eyes in the hospital bed that I occupy still. Now I have found that in my past I suffered a major blow in losing the use of my legs. I have learned that the path I have traveled has not been an easy one but I have prevailed. That says a great deal about who I am. No longer am I a complete stranger to myself.

This knowledge only makes me crave more. I am anxious to reclaim my life and vow to do whatever I must to succeed.

Tomorrow, Dr. Head is going to bring me the clothes that I wore when admitted to the hospital that have been stored away. His hope is that the sight of them may jog my memory.

Now with optimism that has been bolstered by my discovery, I will rest my aching muscles and leave my unanswered questions for another day.

AN: I hope you have liked the story so far and will leave a review.

Thanks for your support.


	3. October 31st, 1921

October 31st, 1921

I am spent in every possible way. The excitement that propelled me in the early hours of the morning as I awaited Dr. Head's arrival is gone. It has been replaced by a weariness that runs so deep that I feel it in my very soul. Thoughts trip over one another in my muddled brain and my tired, aching body yearns for rest. Yet I cannot close my eyes. Not with this new knowledge I possess.

How can I have any respite when I have discovered that the life I led before now was shared with someone? No, not with someone. It was shared with "the one", the woman who I chose to be my wife. And I have left her alone. It pains me deeply to know that I have caused this woman unimaginable pain and sorrow for it stands to reason that she either believes I am dead or have abandoned her. I am still debating which is worse.

I cannot say precisely the outcome I envisioned when Dr. Head and Nurse Pomeroy entered my room today with the latter carrying a laundry sack with "Patient 9" pinned to it. But I am certain that I did not foresee what came to pass. When the contents of the sack were poured out onto my bed, nothing I saw in the small pile of what first appeared to be rags was familiar to me. My nurse explained that in order to treat me, the attending doctor had to cut the clothing from my body, hence the strips of cloth. The tattered blue shirt stained with blood and caked on mud that lay before my eyes could have belonged to Henry Wheeler for all I knew. The same was the case regarding the remnants of my suit jacket and vest, both in the same battered condition.

The sight and scope of the blood on the scraps that remained made my stomach jump. All evidence pointed to a very serious accident, one that could have easily taken my life and I remarked to Dr. Head that I was surprised that I had survived it. He explained that gashes to the head bleed profusely even when they are not life threatening. I was admitted to the facility with a deep cut on the left side of my skull which required multiple stitches.

Though that wasn't the only gash found on my body, it was responsible for the majority of the deep red stains on my clothing. Dr. Head went on to say that a sizable amount of blood had trickled down my face and pooled in my ear. At first sight this appeared to be a sign of internal bleeding. Fortunately upon further examination, he was relieved to find that was not the case.

This was the first time my neurologist chronicled my physical condition at the time I was admitted to the hospital. Even though I still cannot recall any details of my accident, I can now visualize the aftermath in my mind. That helps, somehow.

The next article of clothing that I held in my hands was my trousers , thankfully still in tact. The lower half of my suit was crumpled and muddied as the rest but as I rummaged through the pant pockets, I found one had something nestled in the silk lining.

It was not hard for me to deduce by the shape of the object that it was a ring. But it wasn't until I retrieved it and opened my palm that I could see it was a wedding band. I didn't recognize it as mine but was not surprised when I placed it on the fourth finger of my now trembling hand and found it fit perfectly.

In vain I tried to keep the tears that welled in my eyes from spilling. I could not speak and cannot be sure how long I simply stared at the circle of gold that was now restored to its rightful place. As I sat in silence contemplating its significance, Dr. Head and Nurse Pomeroy quietly gathered up the pile on my bed and left.

So there it is. I prayed to God last night that the sight of my belongings would bring a revelation and my prayers were answered. Now "be careful what you wish for" comes to mind as well as the possibility that my wife may not be the only cherished person that has been lost to me.

I am no fool. Since I am a married man, I may also have the blessing of being a father. If so, there could be many hardships that my beloved faces at this moment without me to support her and our family. My fervent hope is that she possesses the strength to brave this storm for however long it lasts.

In the event my wife is ever privy to this journal, I want her to know that I am sorry that I could not honor all the vows I made to you on our wedding day. Only death should have parted us, not this limbo that I cannot breach. I implore you to never forget what we have shared. Our memories are in your safekeeping now. I trust that since I gave you my heart and my name, that I love you terribly. I want so very much to feel that again. If, no, when this darkness that has enveloped me is lifted, I have no doubt my first memory will be of you.

I can stop writing now. I've said what needed to be said. I will end this entry by asking God to watch over those I love and to quiet my mind so that I can find some small comfort in sleep.

AN: Matthew is devastated to learn that he has caused pain and hardship to the woman he made his wife. What he had hoped would be a happy day turned out to be anything but.

I hope you will review.


	4. November 5th, 1921

At last I have broken free of the invisible ties that bound me to my hospital bed this past week and have rejoined the living. When Nurse Pomeroy discovered me sitting in the Common Room this morning flipping through the pages of the Daily Express, she smiled and exclaimed, "Alleluia!"

It pains me to record that it took five days of relentless pleading and no small amount of bullying on her part to pull me out of the doldrums. Sadly, the gratitude and hope that I felt at the start of this journal has been fleeting.

Dr. Head has advised me that depression goes hand in hand with amnesia. And it is not easily kept at bay no matter how diligent your efforts.

Looking back to the onset of my melancholy, I can see now that it stemmed from pure sadness and frustration - sadness that I have a wife that is foreign to me (as so much else is) and frustration that the sight of my belongings did not produce the desired result.

I must admit that though I did my utmost to curb my expectations that day, I did hold out hope that once I held a tangible part of my past in my hands, all would become clear to me. How I wish that had been the case.

Now I ask myself what is my recourse? Should I squash any hope of my returning to the life I led? I am finding it difficult to navigate this fine line between optimism and despair. Yet I know that I must if I am to avoid the despondency that enveloped me these last few days.

I am a fortunate man in that I can count on Nurse Pomeroy's vigilance and intervention, if necessary, to keep me from drowning in my sorrows. This tiny woman, who appears to be no older than 25, has a commanding presence. And she makes no bones about what she will and will not tolerate from those in her charge. Defeatism is at the top of her list of the "unacceptable" and she works tirelessly to keep it out of this ward.

I have pondered on more than one occasion what is her driving force and today I found my answer. My dedicated nurse is a war widow who lost her husband due to an injury he sustained in the Battle of the Somme. His right leg was torn to pieces by cannon explosion and he died two weeks after it was amputated of septicemia, no doubt due to the filthy conditions that existed in the field hospital where the surgery was performed.

During the short time that her husband lingered on in France, he wrote her letters that often included praise for the nurses who made his remaining time on this earth bearable. Upon learning of his death, Nurse Pomeroy picked up the mantle of the unsung heroes that provided comfort to the man she loved when he needed it most.

This information was relayed to me while she went about her task of stripping the linens (that I had denied her access to in the past 4 days) with alacrity as I sat in the "visitor's chair" stationed far enough from my bed to allow her free movement. I offered her my sympathy for her loss and she responded by requesting that I call her by her Christian name, which is Lilian, whenever Dr. Head was out of earshot.

My nursed added that she hoped we could be friends, a request that was completely unnecessary since I considered her one already. I subsequently agreed to address her by her Christian name going forward as I reasoned it would not be considered an intimacy when I would not be alone in doing so.

I have heard other patients in the ward address her in this manner when Dr. Head is ostensibly out of hearing range or when he appears to be pretending he is (possibly to avoid addressing any impropriety?) One such patient is Henry Wheeler, the chap I mentioned earlier who is beset by bouts of nausea. Though Henry isn't exclusively assigned to Lilian, as the head nurse of the ward, she has interaction with all housed here.

I have enjoyed spending time with Henry (when he is not availing himself of the dreaded metal basin) as he is a very personable young man. With skin as white as his bed linens, wavy red hair and a welcoming smile to all despite any personal discomfort he may be dealing with, he is well liked by all in the Ward.

Getting back to Lilian, no sooner had I familiarized myself with her name than it sprang from my lips in an ear piercing shriek (as Henry relayed to me after the incident) during what is medically termed a night terror.

Doctor Head has explained to me that this is a nightmare of sorts that is common to those who have suffered head trauma. The person experiencing it may appear awake, they are not. And for varying degrees in time, they remain in a highly agitated state and cannot be woken easily.

I have learned that during my night terror, Henry, as well as the rest of the patients in my ward had their sleep disrupted by my thrashing about in my bed so violently that I knocked the pitcher of water on my nightstand to the floor. The crashing sound of breaking glass was then followed by my loudly summoning my nurse and my demanding an answer to a question that makes no sense to me at all.

Though her scheduled hours had ended, Lilian had fortunately not yet left the hospital when the incident took place. Once she heard me crying out her name, she rushed to my bedside.

What I do remember of my ordeal was waking to find Lilian's small hands gripping my upper arms like a vice and Henry bent over my body peering intently into my eyes. In a cold sweat and confused state, I stared blankly at him in response to his asking, "Who in the bloody hell is William?"

I looked then to Lilian as I had no clue what Henry meant and she informed me that she found me with my eyes wide open screaming out the same question over and over again: "Is William dead?"

Yet another mystery.

AN: Your thoughts would be appreciated.


	5. November 19th, 1921

November 19th, 1921

Few leaves remain on the massive London planes that border the hospital courtyard. Soon the trees will be bare as Autumn makes way for winter. It seems impossible that two months have passed since my broken body was deposited here like the morning newspaper with haste by an unidentified good Samaritan. Dr. Head has learned and passed on to me that my benefactor is a male who appears to be roughly 30 years of age.

I cannot personally thank this man (who most likely saved my life) because he did not provide one bit of information about himself or me to anyone at the hospital before he bolted out the front doors. Knowing she would be required to give details to her superiors, the admittance nurse who took charge of me left her post and ventured out onto the street after the stranger. But he was lost to her in the hustle and bustle common to Whitechapel Road in the early morning hours. Therefore, my benefactor remains as much a mystery as my past.

I am blessed, however, to be able to recall all recent events in my life. For the most part, the past 60 days have produced memories that have become indelibly etched into my befuddled mind. That was not a certainty when I began this journal. Yet even though I remember the events that have transpired since I regained full consciousness (which I have been told was at the end of September) it has taken more than the sight of the denuded trees for me to appreciate the amount of time I have spent recovering.

I know that it took four long weeks until the plaster cast on my wrist was removed. As time wore on, the skin beneath it itched so badly that I feared for my sanity. Thankfully I was able to relieve some of my discomfort by poking one of Lilian's knitting needles through the tiny opening in the cast and rapidly moving it back and forth to cause the desired friction.

Nearly the same amount of time was required for my broken ribs to heal to the point where the stiff white bandaging wrapped around my chest like a boa constrictor readying his prey for consumption was removed. The experience has caused me to wonder why women suffer the daily discomfort of wearing a corset. I cannot imagine any level headed person tolerating such torture for vanity's sake.

Enough time has passed, too, so that the potatoes and bread that have been a staple on my luncheon tray these past months have fulfilled their purpose. I no longer appear gaunt or unhealthy. Truth be told, although I still suffer some aches and pains as a result of my injuries and the regiment of exercises that are meant to strengthen me, my physical condition has greatly improved. If I could only say the same for my mind.

My neurologist remains firm in his belief that any damage resulting from the trauma to my head is not permanent and that my memory will return to me once I am fully healed. He cannot, however, gauge how long that process will take. Today he relayed a story to me of a young man found wandering on a train station in Paris in February, 1914 with no recollection of his name or how he got there.

The local authorities showed a picture of this man to nearby residents and discovered that the last time he was seen by anyone, he was headed off to War on a train that left from that very station. The man did not recover his memory for many years and he may never have done so if not for the intervention of one of Dr. Head's colleagues, a renowned psychologist named William Halse Rivers.

Dr. Rivers learned that at the root of the former soldier's amnesia were the years he spent as a prisoner of war in Germany. The horrific memories of that period of time in his life were too much for his psyche to bear, so he blocked them out to keep him from going mad. Unfortunately his memory of everything else that transpired in his life up to that point was lost in the process.

Dr. Head went on to say that Dr. Rivers treated a substantial number of soldiers who suffered shell shock during and after the Great War as a result of the time they served at the Front for king and country.

Hearing the Paris amnesiac's remarkable story gave rise to my questioning (and not for the first time) whether or not any effort had been made by my wife or some other family member to locate me. It seems unlikely that my disappearance would not have been reported to the police. And if that were the case, their investigation would logically lead to searching local hospitals to ascertain if anyone had not been accounted for who was injured in an accident or violent crime.

I inquired if any such request was made since my arrival and learned there has been none. I cannot help but wonder why not. Even in the unlikely event that my wife and I were estranged at the time I vanished, wouldn't she still be concerned to learn my whereabouts? I am certain I would if the situation were reversed.

The knowledge that no one has sought me out along with my contemplation of an estrangement caused me so much anxiety that I could not touch my dinner that evening. Lilian could tell that I was troubled, and she would not leave the ward until I told her what it was that caused me such distress. When I did tell her, she first asked that I not take what she was about to say in a way other than it was intended.

Once I assured her that I would not, she stated quite emphatically that she doubted there was a woman in all of London, or anywhere else for that matter, who would not consider herself fortunate to be my wife. Such kind words. My fervent hope is that there is truth in them as it pertains to the woman that holds my heart.

And what of the remainder of my family? Since I am still relatively young, I do not think it unrealistic to expect one or both my parents still alive. If so, would they not do everything in their power to find me? I would imagine my mother, especially, would leave no stone unturned.

Yet two months have passed. And no one has come to claim me.

While voicing my concern to Dr. Head, he assured me that the hospital has taken steps to locate anyone who may know my identity. Toward that end, he has recently enlisted the aid of an investigator at Scotland Yard who is a former patient of his. My neurologist explained that the officer feels indebted to him as he believes he saved his life.

Perhaps Dr. Head will be my savior as well.

AN: Dr. William Halse Rivers is not fictional. He is a noted psychiatrist and psychologist who served in WWI treating soldiers that suffered shell-shock. He, also, worked closely with Dr. Henry Head in the the London Hospital. Also, the story of the amnesiac in Paris is based on a real person who did, in fact, lose his memory for many years due to events that transpired while he was a prisoner of war in Germany. His name was Octave Majoin.

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. I promise you by the end of this story all mysteries will be solved. Please review!


	6. December 8th, 1921

December 8th, 1921

It has been quite an eventful day. Soon after I finished my breakfast, I learned that Henry Wheeler is going home tomorrow. I admit that I have mixed emotions about Henry's departure. To be sure, I am pleased that he will now return to his family and life that was abruptly interrupted when he fell from a scaffold and in Henry's words, "cracked his head like a walnut." The poor chap fell quite a long way before he passed through some shrubbery and hit the brick pavement - hard.

Henry has declared on more than one occasion that he is certain he would not have survived the fall if not for "divine intervention" and I cannot deny that the evidence he presented to support his claim has merit.

To wit, Henry would have likely expired long before reaching any doctor if not for the close distance between the accident site, St. Mary's Church in Whitechapel, and the London Hospital. Furthermore, that distance was traversed quickly on the day in question as a local dairy driver having just completed his last milk delivery reached the church at exactly the same time that Henry fell. The driver stopped immediately, assisted the man who had been working with Henry in lifting him into the back of his lorry and transported him to the hospital within a few minutes.

Coincidence? Perhaps. But Henry does not think so. Clearly, is he a man of faith? For reasons unknown to me, I am, too.

Each night before I close my eyes I have a one sided conversation with God. First, I thank him for sparing my life and then I ask that he return that life to me. Tonight, my prayers will be slightly altered as I will give thanks for Henry's change in circumstance.

My happiness for Henry is not tinged by envy but sadness that he will no longer be with me here. I can already feel the loss knowing this is the last night we will share in this place. And l know that I will miss Henry terribly because in spite of the time that he has spent with his head in a metal basin, and the time I have spent with my own in a fog, we two have spent enough time together to become friends.

On the subject of fog, the ward is full of new arrivals because it wreaked havoc upon London for two days during the last week of November. The mist was so thick that accidents were rampant even though there were few moving vehicles on the road.

Three of the new patients that were admitted on those days were involved in head on collisions. One man was injured when he ran into a street pole (knocking himself unconscious in the process) in order to escape an oncoming lorry. This gentleman caused quite a ruckus in the ward this afternoon. Regrettably, before it was over, his behavior drew me into an unfortunate incident which involved Lilian.

To begin, I was deeply engrossed in a novel my nurse had procured for me titled, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles", written by a new author named Agatha Christie. At the very moment Hercule Poirot, a very clever detective from Belgium, was about to reveal who poisoned Emily Inglethorp with strychnine, I heard Lillian calling out for help.

I looked up from my book to find her held firmly in the aforementioned patient's grasp and pulled nearly on top of him. Alarm was clearly evident on her face as she thrashed about in an attempt to break free. But, even though her assailant was in a weakened condition, Lilian was no match for him.

Outraged by seeing my caregiver manhandled in this manner, I swiftly crossed the room and grabbed the man's arm forcibly to address his transgression.

Seething, I shouted, "Unhand her, Sir. You forget yourself!"

The offensive patient looked at me through glazed eyes as if seeing me (or anyone else for that matter) for the first time and quickly released Lilian.

It was then that I realized that my heart was beating very quickly and my hands were trembling. In that moment, I discovered what rage feels like. I, also, learned that I do not like the feeling and was quite grateful when it dissipated.

Lilian, once freed, suddenly found humor in the situation and burst into raucous laughter. When I asked her if she had gone mad, she responded by mimicking the words that I had used to bring her attacker to his senses.

"Sir, You forget yourself", she said with dramatic flair.

I saw the direction she was heading, and smiled at her.

She returned my smile and then proclaimed, "John, many men have passed through these doors forgetting themselves...including you."

With that, I could not help but laugh myself.

As if the day was not already full enough of surprises, before it ended I was paid a visit by Detective Joseph Cosgrove from Scotland Yard. After he introduced himself, he advised me that although my case had been suspended by the Missing Person's Division due to lack of evidence, he personally was going to begin his own investigation at Dr. Head's request.

The detective stated his first goal was to discover the identity of the person who brought me to the hospital as he would no doubt possess information regarding the circumstances of my accident. He did not need to mention that without having any clues in hand regarding this mysterious man's whereabouts that it would be nearly impossible to find him.

As our conversation progressed, I learned the reason the detective was going above and beyond the call of duty on my behalf. While still a young officer at Scotland Yard, he was badly injured one night while patrolling the streets of London. As if seeing the scene play before his eyes, he recounted that his horse had gone lame and while he was examining the mare's back foot, she was spooked by a rat and kicked him squarely in the head.

Detective Cosgrove relayed that he was brought to the London Hospital where he was diagnosed to have suffered a hairline fracture to his skull. He went on to say that he was unconscious for two days after he was admitted and early on the situation had appeared quite bleak.

When he did open his eyes, the first person he encountered was Dr. Head who informed him of his injury, assured him that he was in capable hands, and then promised that he would not rest until he made a full recovery. Toward that end, the neurologist worked tirelessly to ensure as much, at times returning to the hospital in the middle of the night when the need arose.

Two months later, Joseph Cosgrove returned to his duties at Scotland Yard in perfect health and filled with gratitude for the man who made it possible for him to do so.

I suspect that after all is said and done, I will feel obliged to both these men.

AN: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" was Agatha Christie's first novel, and the debut of Detective Hercule Poirot. The premise of the book sounds very interesting. I may try to get my hands on a copy. As I've done in previous chapters, fiction and history are going hand in hand. On November 28th and 29th, 1921 London was crippled by a dense fog that prevented food and milk from being delivered.

I hope those enjoying this story (or those who may have constructive criticism) will review. Thanks!


	7. December 16th, 1921

I have been sitting here for at least five minutes with my pen hovering over this page in search of the precise word to describe how I feel. Elated? Euphoric? Overjoyed? None of these superlatives seem adequate.

I have been on cloud nine since Detective Cosgrove brought me the news that he has obtained information that may lead him to the man who brought me here. Finally, after three long months, a breakthrough!

I had not expected to see the detective so soon after our first encounter and was quite surprised to spot him gliding through the doors of the Common Room with Lilian in tow. As they drew closer, I could not help but notice her high-colored cheeks, no doubt due to the close proximity of my visitor.

My nurse shared with me that Detective Cosgrove had made quite an impression on the nurses in the ward during his earlier visit. At the time I wondered if she counted herself as one of the group enamored with the handsome police officer who is investigating my case. Her deep blush provided me with my answer.

This did not surprise me as Joseph Cosgrove is without a doubt as handsome as Valentino and quite amiable. He is also a widower, a fact that was recently relayed to me by Dr. Head. And I have no doubt that his marital status adds considerably to his appeal for those ladies still baiting their hooks.

Once Lillian left, the tall detective with chestnut colored hair and piercing blue eyes recounted the events that led to his discovery. Cosgrove began by stating that since he was not satisfied that enough effort was put forth in questioning the nurse who manned the Admitting desk on the day I was brought to the hospital, he petitioned her to grant him a second interview.

At first, Nurse Barnes was reluctant to spend any more time discussing the matter as she was certain that she had relayed all the information that she possessed to the Scotland Yard investigator who interviewed her back in September. Fortunately, for me, Detective Cosgrove was not the type who gives up easily when he wants something. And he is determined to break this case.

The investigator flatly refused to leave the premises until the admitting nurse would agree to meet him after her shift had ended. He flattered and cajoled her, insisting that she have dinner with him that evening. And ultimately his persistence and charm won her over.

In a relaxed setting and guided by an experienced detective who made interrogation feel more like friendly conversation, Nurse Barnes did remember details she had not when questioned the first time around. In retrospect, the most important came in her visualizing one piece of the mystery man's clothing.

The nurse now recalled that the man who delivered me to her wore a cap with an insignia on it. And with Detective Cosgrove's gentle prodding and guidance, she was able to picture that emblem clearly in her mind. Seeing it led to the floodgates opening.

It occurred to Nurse Barnes that the symbol emblazoned on the man's cap was not completely foreign. In fact, she was now certain that she saw a different chap wearing a cap with the identical marking quite recently. This man had stopped by her desk to learn where he could locate a friend of his who had been admitted to the hospital earlier that day. She remembered, too, that this bloke had some type of dolly with him and she had cautioned him not to take the contraption upstairs.

The detective continued his tale by telling me that after further deliberation, Nurse Barnes slammed her hand on the table (startling the stylishly dressed woman dining next to them so badly that the red wine she was sipping wound up in her lap) and cried out, "He makes deliveries to the hospital!"

After offering her fervent apology to the distraught diner frantically dabbing soda water onto her stained skirt, the nurse added that when she followed the man who had brought me in, she had spotted a lorry parked across the street. At the time, she thought nothing of it but now realized its importance as it likely was the stranger's vehicle.

Detective Cosgrove paused a moment and told me that I needed to breathe. As I had been hanging on his every word, I hadn't realized that I had forgotten to exhale.

I resumed breathing and he resumed his report by giving me the last piece of information that he received that day. The lorry was owned by Smith's Potato Crisps. And this company did, in fact, routinely deliver their product to the hospital as well as many other establishments close to it.

Furthermore, the detective advised me that he was meeting with the owner of Smith's upon his return to London the upcoming Monday to ascertain the name and address of the driver who made deliveries on Whitechapel Road on the day in question.

I wanted to pinch myself to be certain that I was not dreaming but feared if I did, the detective would surely think me unhinged. Still, it was difficult to contain my excitement. As he rose to leave, I did the same. And in an effort to release some of the pent up energy bubbling inside me, I accompanied him on his way out of the hospital.

While we walked side by side down stairs that smelled as though a bottle of strong disinfectant had recently been poured over them to the main floor, Detective Cosgrove cautioned me not to be overly optimistic as we still had a long road ahead of us. I admitted that though this would not be an easy task for me to accomplish, I would make a valiant attempt to do so.

A moment before we reached the doors leading out onto the street, the Scotland Yard investigator took me by surprise by stopping short and asking if I would commend him to Lilian. I'm sure I looked as perplexed by his request as I felt because upon seeing my expression, he added that he was hoping that she would accompany him to Hyde Park, if weather permitted, the following day. And he clarified that he believed my recommendation would sway her decision in his favor.

I wondered what would lead him to believe that my opinion held any weight in the matter and asked him as much.

Looking me squarely in the eyes, Cosgrove declared, "If I did not know better, John, I would think you speak in the spirit of mockery, for it is as plain as the nose on your face that Lilian Pomeroy is in love with you."

I blinked. And then I could not help but pinch myself.

AN: Hyde Park is one of the largest parks as well as one of the Royal Parks in London. It was the site of the Great Exhibition of 1851 which was a World's Fair of its time. Rudolph Valentino was an actor and screen idol. Quite the heartthrob in 1921. Finally, there was an actual company by the name of Smith's Potato Crisps based in London that produced and delivered the popular snack. I guess some things never change.


	8. December 17th, 1921

December 17th, 1921

I have been thinking about Lilian. More precisely, I have been thinking of the events that transpired yesterday as a result of Detective Cosgrove's thinking about Lilian and coming to the conclusion that she is in love with me. This news was literally left at my door by the detective on his way out of the hospital, and as that door closed behind him, I remained rooted in place with my mouth agape, shocked by what I had just heard.

It took a few seconds for me to regain my composure before I headed back to the Common Room and Lilian. I was certain she would be there as she had told me that it was her day to man the gramophone that was recently donated to our Ward by a patron moving to France. Wondering how I would react to seeing her now, it felt as though butterflies took up residence inside my stomach. As they fluttered wildly about, I stopped in my tracks, took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly in an attempt to calm myself. For the most part, it worked.

The lingering medicinal scent in the stairwell leading to the second floor reminded me that the only home I knew was this hospital. That disturbed me, but I didn't dwell on my predicament because I needed to address Cosgrove's claim before coming face to face with my nurse.

My pace slowed as I gave the matter at hand serious consideration. Before long, I concluded that I could not dismiss what the detective had presented as fact because he had been trained in the art of observation and deduction. Yet I could not fully accept his proclamation until I found evidence of my own that would support it.

The proof I sought presented itself in my mind before the sound of music floating out of the Common Room reached my ears. It was there in Lilian's smile the day she handed me the mystery novel she had borrowed from the library, in her eyes as they searched my own for consciousness during one of my night terrors, and in her kind words; never more so than when she assured me that any woman would consider herself fortunate to have me as a husband.

As I reached the last step, I heard the sound of Lilian's laughter and could not help but smile. Then I cursed myself for being a fool as I realized that Detective Cosgrove saw in two short visits what I had been blind to for months. It also was clear that he was certain that Lilian's feelings were not reciprocated by me. Otherwise, he would not have asked me to intercede on his behalf.

I decided then that I would do whatever was in my power to assist Joseph Cosgrove in winning Lilian Pomeroy's heart. It would be done, I reasoned, for her sake as well as my own since her happiness was at stake and I could not give her what she needs to attain it.

Therefore, my mission for the remainder of the day was to convince my nurse to take some much deserved time away from the hospital to accompany Detective Cosgrove to the park while keeping my newly found knowledge regarding her feelings for me under wraps.

Entering the Common Room, aptly named as all patients physically able to leave their beds gather there, I found the white walls took on a golden hue as the first ray of sun in four days streamed through the long row of windows diagonal to me. It washed over everything it touched, including Lilian, who took on an ethereal glow.

I found my nurse in a small nook across the room, bent over the aforementioned gramophone and surrounded by a dozen or so patients, each tapping one of their feet. That is all except for one heavyset man who had both of his legs in a cast and was keeping the beat to the lively tune playing with his index finger on the wooden arm of his wheelchair.

As the record ended, Lilian removed it and placed it off to the side of the gramophone. Then she carefully put another on the turntable, guiding the needle down onto the first groove of the spinning disc. As the tune she had chosen began to fill the room, she stepped back and perused her surroundings. Spotting me, she smiled broadly and motioned for me to join her.

I had no recollection of the song she played (which was not surprising) but the melody was pleasing and the chorus uplifting. A woman with a very strong voice was singing that we should "look for the silver lining whenever clouds appear." The words and melody rendered me motionless in the center of the room as a feeling of utter contentment washed over me.

Lilian called out to me, breaking the spell I was under before she turned back to the stack of records to make her next selection. I then realized that since making my decision to assist Detective Cosgrove in garnering her affection, the butterflies that troubled me a few minutes earlier were gone. Looking at my nurse's smiling face, I felt exactly as I had the last time we had spent any time together. I liked her very much, admired and respected her, and I was grateful for the friendship that existed between us. Nothing more

Once I reached Lilian, she told me that she could tell how much I had enjoyed the last song as I was smiling until it ended. She went on to say that it was one of her favorites from a musical that she seen some years back titled "Zip Goes a Million." The title of the production was odd, yet somehow made perfect sense. Then remembering what it was that I had to convince Lilian to do, I didn't give the tune any further thought and set to work.

I am glad to say that my mission was accomplished quickly as Nurse Pomeroy was eager to thank Detective Cosgrove for the progress he has made in my case. It pleases me to report, too, that I managed to steer my nurse in the right direction while keeping Detective Cosgrove's disclosure securely under my hat.

When I next see Dr. Head, I am going to tell him how I reacted to the song I heard today. It may have some importance in the great matter.

AN: Thoughts?

As you may already know, "Zip Goes a Million" was a show that flopped in 1919 although a hit song, "Look for the Silver Lining," came out of it. As for Patient #9's reaction to the popular song, Sigmund Freud, as well as many other noted psychiatrists, found that a patient's subconscious mind did not forget, even though they did. Patients would react positively or negatively to visual objects or something that they heard that produced strong emotions before they lost their memory. Hence, Patient #9's reaction. We know how he felt when he danced to it previously!

Many have asked when Mary will appear in this story. Without giving away the ending of this journal, I can say that she will appear. I just cannot tell you when or how just yet. If you stay with this till the end, I do believe you will be happy you did.

Please review.


	9. December 18th, 1921

December 18th, 1921

Three months to the day that I was admitted to this institution, I am being released. This will be my last journal entry as Patient #9 in The London Hospital. I learned of my impending discharge when Lilian stopped by (with Detective Cosgrove in tow) stating she wanted to be certain that "all" had been fine in the ward during her absence. Since she came straight to my bedside upon entering the room and began reading my medical chart, I think it safe to say that the "all" she was referring to was, in actuality, "me."

Lilian read the first lines of the page, and clearly piqued by what she saw, tossed the chart on the bed and rushed out of the room. Detective Cosgrove's gaze followed her until she was out of sight. He then turned to me, threw his hands up and shrugged.

Since my nurse made her abrupt departure upon reviewing my medical chart, I assumed that the contents were the cause of her agitation. Therefore, I retrieved it from where it landed at the foot of my bed and scanned the first page. "Patient being discharged" was scribbled in bold ink at the top of it. My heartbeat quickened as I searched the rest of the notes to find exactly where I would be discharged to. I reasoned that I would not be released to the streets of London without a penny to my name or knowledge of it. Yet the alternatives to my becoming a homeless beggar were no better.

In lieu of my circumstances, I would either be discharged to the Whitechapel Workhouse or the London County Asylum for Paupers. I learned more than I wanted to about said workhouse from Robert Norwood, a patient that was admitted here in early November suffering a mild concussion. He told me that he was grateful for his injury as it enabled him a respite from the misery he endured daily at the place.

Despite demands by the Health Ministry to improve living conditions there, it was still overcrowded and infested with vermin and disease. I was horrified to further hear from the concussed patient that up to 20 men would wash in the same bathwater. And those crammed into the tiny bedrooms provided would have to defecate in a hole dug in the corner of their room.

My other path led me to the London County Asylum which housed the criminally insane alongside the suicidal and amnesiacs. I read an article in "Stars and Stripes" about the facility as it became home to many returning soldiers who left their sanity on the battlefield.

I had held out hope that my memory would return to me before I would be released from this place. It never crossed my mind that if I had not, my destiny would be to join the ranks of the destitute and the mad.

My thoughts had consequence. Panic rose quickly inside me and my hands, still gripping the chart that held my fate, began to tremble. I could feel my chest muscles tighten making it increasingly difficult for me to draw in full breath. And my heart beat so loudly, that I could hear it pounding in my ears. Detective Cosgrove, observing my worsening condition, called out loudly to Lilian. Not far from the ward, she heeded his summons and arrived quickly at my bedside.

Noting the chart that I still held in my shaking hands, she gently pried it from my fingers and handed it to the clearly perplexed detective at her side. Then she told me that she knew the cause of my distress as Robert Norwood had shared our conversation regarding the Workhouse with her. Furthermore, she relayed that she had read the same article I had pertaining to amnesiacs being treated at the county asylum.

I can only assume that my nurse expected me to express how I felt about my newly discovered predicament once she finished speaking but with my head still reeling, I simply stared at her.

Lilian took hold of my shoulders and shook me gently to get my attention and once she was certain she had it, said with conviction, "You have my word that you will never step foot in either of those places. If that means that you will have to share my flat with me, I will welcome you to do so."

The head nurse of the ward then turned to the detective and myself as though she could read our minds and added. "And, to hell with my reputation."

Joseph Cosgrove, surprisingly calm for a man who had just heard the woman he is enamored with extend me an invitation to live with her, interjected, "I do not think that will be necessary, Nurse Pomeroy, as Henry would never sanction such a thing."

It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to Dr. Head by his Christian name, which he would since they were close friends. I could not help but question then if the detective knew my neurologist well enough to predict his stance on this issue. I did not have to wait long to get my answer.

The patients in the ward as well as the staff were surprised to see the neurologist at the hospital on a Sunday as that was the day he set aside to spend with his wife in their home in Eaton Square. I heard my doctor's voice booming in the hallway long before he entered the room with a colleague at his side.

Coming straight to my bedside, he introduced his companion as Dr. William Halse Rivers. The name was very familiar to me. And it did not take long for me to conclude that the tall man offering me his hand was the psychologist Dr. Head had spoken of who had cured the amnesiac in France.

The two doctors had come to the hospital to propose that I become part of an experiment they would be working on that pertained to my condition. Their goal was to prove that the cause of retrograde amnesia was not confined to physical injury. Dr. Rivers held Sigmund Freud's belief that it could occur as a result of emotional trauma, as well. Both he and Dr. Head doubted that my amnesia was the lone result of the head injury that I sustained in my accident. In order to test their theory, I would begin psychotherapy with Dr. Rivers the following week.

Dr. Head then advised me that he had received permission from the Board for me to accompany him to the hospital on a daily basis so that he could observe my behavior. During that time, I would assist him with the patients in the ward in any way he saw fit, even if just to commiserate with them as I knew first hand what they were experiencing.

Finally, I was told that I would receive a weekly stipend for my participation in their study with two weeks pay in advance so that I could purchase the clothes and other items I needed. Dr. Head jested that it was not appropriate for any employee to report for duty wearing pajamas and bed slippers.

I could not have hoped for a better outcome to my dilemma and expressed my gratitude to both doctors who stood before me. The only thing still unresolved was where I would hang my hat. When I broached my living arrangement with Dr. Head, he told me that Lilian had confided my fear of being sent to the county asylum or workhouse to him.

His last words to me before leaving with Dr. Rivers were, "John, you are an intelligent and courageous soul who I admire and care about a great deal. I would no sooner discharge you to a workhouse or a madhouse than take up residence in one myself."

My neurologist then proceeded to invite me to be his and his wife Ruth's house guest until I was able to provide suitable lodging for myself.

Dr. Head, is without a doubt, my savior.

AN: Matthew was without memory and destitute after his car accident. As such, he would have been sent to a pauper's asylum or workhouse infirmary for lunatics. There was no different treatment for mind disorders in Great Britain in 1921. The Whitechapel Workhouse is a real place. My description comes from a report of the abysmal living conditions by one of its inmates. True, too, is the relationship between acclaimed physicians. Henry Head and William Halse Rivers. They performed many experiments together during their long friendship. Dr Rivers was a psychiatrist who followed Freud's footsteps regarding the classification of amnesia due to psychological stress.

Please leave a review and recommend this story to others you may think would enjoy it.


	10. December 20th, 1921

I feel as though I have peered through the gates of hell and just narrowly escaped becoming one of its inhabitants. Dr. Head's intervention has undoubtedly saved me from a fate that many (including myself) consider worse than death. The poor souls who dwell in the workhouses and asylums throughout this land are living testaments to that assertion. If only they all could be spared as I have.

In truth, I have been more than spared a horrible fate as this is an enviable place for any one to call home. I stand in awe of the beauty that surrounds me here and relish the warmth that not only emanates from the fire in the hearth but those who have welcomed me under this roof.

From the moment I passed through the threshold, Mrs. Head has fussed over me as though I were a cherished friend. Smiling broadly over a delicate china teacup adorned with pink roses, she told me that she does not look upon me as a stranger since Henry has shared so many details about me with her.

Ruth Head, too, has been a topic of conversation on more than one occasion while Dr. Head tended to me at the hospital. Today, as his wife insisted I relax and have a cup of tea before getting settled into my room, I knew that the hefty praise he gave her was not unwarranted.

While I enjoyed a second cup of an excellent orange pekoe brew, my neurologist joined his spouse and I in a large Drawing Room with pale blue walls and an ornate ceiling bordered with white plaster cherubs.

Quickly, Dr. Head took a seat next to his spouse, pecked her on the cheek and placed a pen and pad on the table beside his cup. I presumed (correctly) that he did so in the event I said something noteworthy. And much to his delight (and my surprise) I did when our conversation steered toward the size of the house and Eaton Square in general.

I was astonished to find that my physician lived in such a grand place. From what I saw during our journey here, this is securely an upper class address, not one you would attribute to a doctor contracted with a hospital in Whitechapel.

The streets are lined with grand white stuccoed townhouses, four or five stories high and joined by ornate iron terraces. And in the rear of each is a Mews house for servants and garage. Adding to the beauty of the architecture, the rows of houses encompass a magnificent central garden.

Dr. Head explained that he inherited the property from a lieutenant that he had treated for a head injury in 1917. At my urging, he offered further detail and recounted that the officer was a patient of his in a hospital in Belgravia.

The Officer's Hospital was set up in 1915 by Lady Northcliffe, the wife of a newspaper proprietor and publishing magnate, Alfred Harmsworth, 1st Viscount Northcliffe. The facility was small, only containing 20 beds, but quite grand. Fresh flowers were displayed in Rene Lalique cut crystal vases on each patient's nightstand, meals served to them on fine bone china. And the Operating Theater had white marble walls.

Lady Northcliffe personally petitioned Dr. Head to treat Lieutenant Philip Bradford as he was a close friend who lived nearby. He had been admitted to the hospital in an unconscious state and all signs pointed to his imminent death.

The neurologist found him to have a skull fracture that was life threatening upon examination. But thankfully it healed in time under his care. And the day the lieutenant was released to his wife, Emily, was beside herself with joy, having feared for months that the child she was carrying would never know his father.

At this point, Dr. Head lowered his head and stopped speaking, clearly reluctant to continue. His wife, sensing what I did, gently placed her hand on her husband's shoulder in support. And then she picked up the tale from where he had left it.

Emily and Philip Bradford were blessed with a healthy baby boy three months after he was discharged from the hospital. The new father rejoiced in his good fortune as he held his newborn son, grateful that he had survived the War and would be able to raise his child. Crediting Dr. Head for his survival and in the spirit of gratitude, he named the physician as one of his beneficiaries in his will. He would be third in line following his wife and any of his offspring.

Mrs. Head said she doubted Philip Bradford ever imagined that his doctor would be the lone survivor upon his death. In 1919 his wife, Emily, and their 18 month old son, Jonathan, were lost to Spanish flu. Shortly thereafter, heartbroken and alone, the grieving widower was cut down when a blood clot, most likely a result of the trauma to his brain, burst inside his skull, killing him instantly.

Dr. Head lifted his head and completed the tragic tale by adding that he was notified shortly afterward that he was the sole beneficiary of the Bradford estate. At first he did not want to accept the inheritance as he and Ruth were content with their lifestyle, which was quite different than that of someone living in Belgravia. But in the end, they decided that it would be wrong not to honor Philip Bradford's bequest.

They would not, however, wholly change their accustomed way of life. The top two floors of the townhouse were closed off as the Heads deemed them unnecessary. And the remaining rooms would be maintained by two housemaids, hardly the staff on hand in any other residence in Eaton Square.

The physician and his wife brought the cook that had been in their employ for 10 years. And Mrs. Head often joined her in the kitchen to prepare one of Dr. Head's favorites when the mood struck her. Though they lived differently than many of their neighbors, as time passed, they found their niche amongst the increasing number of noveau riche in Belgravia.

My heart bled for the family that fate had only allowed a few precious years together. That was what I was thinking, but the words that came out of my mouth were, "Ypres took his life, after all."

Dr. Head's eyes widened as he asked me if I understood what I had just said. I explained that since he was wounded in 1917, I assumed it was during the last of the battles at Ypres, one of the bloodiest in the War. He then asked me if I knew of any of the other battles and readied his pen and notebook.

Without giving his question much thought, I replied, "Mons, the Marne, Verdun, the Somme, Arras, Messiners, Passchendaele and Amiens. I believe it ended with Amiens in 1918."

Dr. Head looked amazed and said he surmised that either I was a historian or had played a very active role in the War. He was most impressed by my recounting the battles in chronological order. I did not have time to evaluate any benefit my ability to name the battles fought in the Great War had because at that moment we were interrupted by a housemaid named Rose announcing Detective Cosgrove's arrival.

I had anxiously been awaiting news from the detective regarding the driver who brought me to the London Hospital. Now that the moment was at hand, I found it difficult to swallow. I searched Joseph Cosgrove's face as he entered the drawing room but it gave nothing away.

The detective smiled brightly as he reached us and greeted Ruth Head first before clasping her husband's hand and then mine. The Heads were both aware of the reason the detective had come and rose to leave the room in order to give us privacy. I stood, too, and petitioned them both to stay, reasoning I might need their support if the news were not favorable.

Joseph Cosgrove reported that he had interviewed Frank Smith (the owner of the potato crisp factory) and discovered that the driver, James Bower, had left his employ at the end of September to join his sister and brother-in-law in America. Mr. Bower was apparently offered a driving position in his relative's moving company that might lead to a share in ownership down the line. His sister sent him the funds to book passage to New York as soon as possible, and he wasted no time doing so.

My heart sank as the investigator concluded by telling us that the driver had not left Mr. Smith any other information pertaining to his whereabouts once he reached his destination.

Mrs. Head rose from her chair once more and came to stand behind me with her hands resting on my shoulders. With appreciation for her kind gesture, I concluded that she and her husband were well matched in their compassion for others. Then I let out an involuntary sigh.

Noting my disappointment, Detective Cosgrove encouraged me not to give up hope as he had garnered some information from Frank Smith that could prove to be very valuable.

The factory owner provided him with a list of all the delivery stops on Mr. Bower's route. It was quite long, beginning in London and traveling as far north as Thirsk. But the detective was not discouraged by the roughly 300 kilometers he would have to cover in his investigation, reasoning that if the injuries I sustained were a result of an automobile accident (as Dr. Head surmised), there might have been an abandoned vehicle found near one of Mr. Bower's stops

Therefore, he informed me that his next step would be to meet with the Constabulary housed within close proximity to the delivery locations as well as the locals in the area. His hope was that an abandoned vehicle may have been found around the time I was admitted to the London which hopefully contained some clue that would lead to my identity.

The detective then proposed the possibility that Mr. Bower was responsible for my accident, noting that might be the reason he took the initiative to bring me to the hospital. He added that this would also explain his leaving his position at Smiths in such a hasty fashion.

Dr. Head, along with his wife and I nodded in agreement as we processed each deduction put before to us. And once the Joseph Cosgrove had relayed the last bit of information that he possessed, he took a seat and joined us for tea.

Now, as I retire for the night, I take comfort in the Scotland Yard investigator's skill and optimism, even though the knowledge that Mr. Barrow is out of reach is disheartening.

And thoroughly fatigued by today's events, I look forward to restful sleep in what is sure to be a much more comfortable bed than what I am accustomed to.

AN: Matthew's subconscious remembered something important here that only one viewer out of thousands picked up on. Do you see it?

Please review. Every kind note encourages me to start a new chapter in order to solve this mystery for Patient #9.

Eaton Square is one of the three garden squares built in 1827 by Thomas Cubbitt for the Grosvenor family, landed gentry who owned the property which forms Belgravia, still a "securely upper class address". In fact, it is one of the most expensive, and desired places to live in Great Britain. There was an officer's hospital in Belgravia established by Lady Northcliffe. Both she and her husband are part of London's history. Patient #9's accounting of the battles in WWI is spot on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew's subconscious provided him with a clue in this chapter. Only one reader in thousands of views picked it up. Do you see it?


	11. December 24th, 1921

December 24th, 1921

Three brisk knocks on my bedroom door alerted me that it was time to rise and ready myself to accompany Dr. Head into Whitechapel. Although reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, I tossed the coverlet aside and quickly gathered my clothes to dress so I would not delay him. We needed to arrive at the hospital before my doctor made his scheduled rounds as we had been enlisted for a special mission by Mrs. Head.

There was no doubt in my mind that the Christmas cookies and mince pies prepared by Mrs. Fielding (who proved to be an excellent cook) and Mrs. Head would be savored. I was quite certain, too, that the boys and girls in the Children's Ward would delight in the sugar cookies baked especially for them in the shape of Father Christmas. Each one was frosted with red and white icing, and small bits of chocolate filled in nicely for his eyes and the buttons on his coat. It was Mrs. Head's way of bringing some cheer to the children who could not be home for Christmas, and I was happy that I could play even a small part in her plan.

Leaving the comfort of my room behind me, I relished the aroma of freshly baked cookies and frying bacon that wafted up to the second floor of the house. I took pleasure in the knowledge that some of the scents that were making my mouth water stemmed from the food we would be served for breakfast, and with that thought, I quickened my pace down the grand staircase.

Upon reaching the first floor, I went straight to the kitchen. There, I found Mrs. Head playfully slapping her husband's hand as he was caught sampling a cookie from one of the tins meant for the hospital that were stacked neatly on the long table in the center of the room used in preparing the meals for the household.

I looked on as she giggled like a schoolgirl while her husband dramatically hung his head in mock shame over his pilfering. The sight both pleased and amazed me as I recently learned that the two have been married for 35 years, yet the scene before me belied that fact. And I have been witness to many more like it. Just yesterday, I found the two of them covered in flour in the kitchen, laughing like loons as Dr. Head pushed a stray strand of hair out of his wife's eyes while she went on kneading a mound of dough.

They kiss whenever they greet one another and before they part. Mrs. Head adjusts my doctor's spectacles when he is reading and she deems them too low on his nose. Dr. Head makes sure his wife doesn't begin what he calls her "shopping adventure" without her umbrella in the likely event of rain. I have found they can discuss politics as easily as poetry during dinner and before they lift a fork to their mouths, they share the highs and lows of each of their days.

My newfound friend shared with me that she and her husband truly value the time they spend together as they know the pain of separation. I knew that Dr. Head's work at the hospital left him little time to spend at home. As my conversation with his wife continued, I learned that some years earlier, he had spent every weekend for five years working on an experiment with Dr. Rivers in Cambridge.

In order to keep abreast of each other's experiences while they were apart, the Heads kept a "commonplace book" in which they recorded their daily experiences. Then, when the two were reunited, they would exchange the books in order to catch up on what they had missed. I told Mrs. Head that I regularly make entries into this journal and my hope was that one day my wife would read it. She smiled brightly at me and said she had no doubt she would appreciate it very much.

Once Dr. Head was forgiven for his misdeed, we all left the kitchen and made our way through the Great Hall in order to access the Dining Room as breakfast awaited us. While walking through it, I marveled at the size and beauty of the Norwegian spruce that had been delivered the day before and stood ready to be adorned. It appeared to be at least 25 feet in height and easily 10 feet wide. Its dark green needles filled the room with the sweet scent of evergreen.

The strong smell also emanated from a kissing bough that hung from the elegant crystal chandelier in the center of the room. Framed with wire in the shape of a globe, it is filled with colorful glass baubles, mistletoe and ivy, adorned with long strands of velvet ribbon. Knowing Detective Cosgrove and Lilian had accepted Dr. Head's invitation to Christmas dinner, I had no doubt the detective would maneuver my former nurse into standing directly under the mistletoe as tradition would dictate a kiss.

Upon our return from the hospital, we three along with the household staff would begin decorating the tree. The two housemaids, Rose and Beatrice, had laid out the ornaments to be used on a nearby table. There were a variety of glass balls and stars alongside figurines with fairy lights, tinsel and Christmas crackers to be placed on the boughs. I felt caught up in the excitement of the holiday preparation and looked forward to viewing the tree with all the trimmings. Mrs. Head then reminded her husband that it was getting late. And having made quick work of our breakfast, we gathered the tins of cookies and pies and headed to the garage to pack them in his car.

It was rare for Dr. Head to drive himself to the hospital as his preferred method of transportation is the underground railway. It is convenient since Victoria Station is only a few minute's walking distance from his home. And he has nothing but praise for the technology that enables the inhabitants of London (and those visiting) to navigate it with relative ease and expenditure. The car, however, was better suited to transport the considerable amount of baked goods that lined the back of his Crossley four-seater.

I welcomed the amount of time that it would take for us to reach our destination as I wanted to revisit Detective Cosgrove's assumptions regarding Mr. Bower with him. After rehashing the details that had been provided to us, Dr. Head and I agreed that the detective's reasoning was sound and the new information he possessed could lead to the breakthrough we had been hoping for.

Still, I could not help but think of how much easier the investigator's task would be if someone had notified the authorities that I had disappeared. I remain baffled as to why no one has searched for me. I have attempted to resolve this conundrum for months but my efforts have resulted in nothing but more unanswered questions and frustration. It seems futile to keep trying, yet not knowing the reason gnaws at me.

I shared my thoughts and fears with Dr. Head including my belief that my wife must think that I have abandoned her, adding that there is no greater sin a man can commit than deserting his family. Dr. Head nodded his head in agreement. Then I wondered out loud how difficult tomorrow would be for those I left behind who would spend Christmas without me.

Dr. Head's eyes never veered from the road but I could see the empathy in them.

My mood darkened and I tapped my head against the side window in frustration.

Learning the source of the thumping noise, my neurologist chided, "Listen here, old chap...I have spent a considerable amount of time and energy getting that head of yours to function properly. Do not undo my good work."

I could not help but laugh.

He then became serious and asked, "Did you ever wonder why I have not placed your photograph in any of the London newspapers for the purpose of identification?"

I thought he had not done so because of the expense the hospital would incur and told him as much.

He shook his head quickly back and forth indicating that was not the case and declared he would have gladly paid for the placement of it personally. Then, noting the blank look on my face, he let that question drop before he pursued another.

"Can you not think of any reason, beside what you have shared with me, as to why your wife or someone else that is close to you would remain silent on the matter of your disappearance?"

Once again, I found myself at a loss and simply stared at him registering my bewilderment.

Dr. Head pulled the car off the road onto the shoulder and took a deep breath before addressing me. With sadness in his eyes, he stated that he had not posted my photograph because Joseph Cosgrove cautioned him that doing so might jeopardize my safety.

Taking in my doctor's surprising statement, I pondered why this would be so. But my musings were interrupted when Dr. Head provided me with the answer.

"Cosgrove feared that this type of publicity would lead to someone who (for an unknown reason) had made no effort to find you for months, yet would now become your custodian. That scenario did not sit well with Joseph or I because the reason for that individual's inactivity on your behalf might prove ominous.

I could not deny the logic in Dr. Head's explanation but it left me feeling anxious and wary of what he would say next.

"You have imagined your wife to be a grieving angel, but in actuality that may not be the case. Joseph has entertained the possibility that she may be involved in your accident in some way and that is why she never sought you out."

The words cut me like a knife and it took me a few moments to regain my composure. I did so by reasoning that Detective Cosgrove likely has entertained a great number of possibilities with regard to my predicament. He is, after all, the Hercule Poirot of my mystery.

Still, I was grateful that we were nearing the hospital and there was little time left for further discussion.

Dr. Head's final words on the topic were "I adhere to the principles of Occam's Razor."

I shook my head as I had no knowledge of it.

He explained, "When you have two competing theories that make exactly the same predictions, the simpler one is the better."

I remained silent allowing him to continue uninterrupted.

Joseph agrees with this," he said. "And you would, too, if it not for the fact that you have forfeited logic for self-preservation. Meaning, to avoid heartache, you have blocked out the simpler theory that your wife did not file a Missing Person Report because she does not want to find you."

Neither of us uttered another word until we reached the hospital.

..

Whitechapel stood before us. The townhouses of Eaton Square were replaced by factories and seven-storied tenement houses. Each were connected by long clotheslines instead of the lovely terraces found in Belgravia. Black smoke rose from the factory chimneys and smog filled the air. Many of the structures were quite old and in dire need of repair. I learned from a few of the patients that lived in Whitechapel that the tenements are overcrowded, at times housing ten people in two small rooms.

The disparity between the social classes in this place and the one I would return to with Dr. Head was glaring. I wondered if it upset him as much as it did me. But I reasoned now was not the time for that discussion.

Dr. Head parked the car and we unloaded the tins from back seat. With our arms full, we made our way up to the Head Trauma Ward to distribute the cookies and pies. It felt odd passing by my empty bed, although I was glad to see that the ward was not as full as it had been when I left. Thankfully, some chaps made it home for Christmas, which I am sure made them happy no matter where that home may be. Those that remained quickly sampled the delicious baked goods they were given. Each mouthed their thanks while devouring the contents of the tin on their lap. My spirits were lifted at the sight of it.

My mood improved even more when I spotted Lilian enter the ward with a large poinsettia in her arms. She smiled in my direction as she headed my way but upon reaching me, her countenance changed. Her face turned blank as she peered over the potted plant between us appearing as though she were seeing me for the first time.

I allowed a few moments of uncomfortable silence to pass before I asked what was wrong. Lilian blinked, then smiled and said she was not accustomed to seeing me dressed.

I knew it would not take her long to realize her poor phrasing. It was not difficult to pinpoint the moment she did as her cheeks burned red.

Perhaps it was wrong of me to do so, but I could not help but let Lilian wallow over her gaffe for a few moments. Then I chuckled before letting her know that I understood precisely what she meant.

We fell into easy conversation that included our plans for Christmas the following day with the Heads. Lilian then asked if I would deliver the poinsettia that she rested on her hip to our hostess and I agreed that I would.

As we continued chatting, I could not help but tease her a bit about Detective Cosgrove and the kissing bough but she would not rise to the bait. Instead, she told me Dr. Head had sent her to bring me to the Children's Ward to make my special delivery.

It was full as there had been an outbreak of flu a week earlier and many were still recuperating. Lilian joined me in handing out Father Christmas cookies, making sure every child received one. They all beamed at the sight of their treat once they were able to free it from the small satin pouch Mrs. Head had wrapped it in.

Though many of the young patients were still flushed with fever and noticeably fatigued, none of them complained about their ailment or spending the night before Christmas in the hospital. A tiny, thin girl with curly red hair who appeared about 5 year's old insisted on giving me a kiss to thank me for her cookie.

I was set to oblige her, but Lillian intervened and suggested to the child that she give me a special hug instead. She knew that would lessen the risk of any contagion. The little one's hands were sticky with icing, and when she wrapped her tiny arms around my neck, the majority of it wound up in my hair. The sight prompted Lilian to squeal with laughter.

There was one cookie left when I reached the last bed in the Ward. The recipient was a little chap named George who had blonde locks and large blue eyes. He was still somewhat feverish and the glow on his cheeks and beautiful features likened him to an angel.

I told him as much and he smiled brightly in spite of his discomfort. He pulled his cookie out of the pouch and thanked me for it before declaring he was not hungry. Then placing it back in its wrapping, he laid it on the night stand next to his bed. Observing this, Lilian asked him if his stomach hurt and began a perfunctory examination. The child shook his head while she was checking his pulse. Then, she questioned, "Does anything else hurt you, George?"

He replied, "It hurts that my Papa cannot come to see me."

I looked to Lilian for an explanation and she patted the boy's hand in a comforting manner before venturing down the hall to speak with the nurse in charge of the ward. After a few minutes, she returned and told me that the child's father was presently working on the docks, this being the busiest time of year. That was the reason he was not here comforting his son. The man had five mouths to feed and simply could not pass up any job that presented itself. Little George's mother had a newborn at home which prevented her from visiting. Sadly, the little chap would spend the night before Christmas without both of his parents.

I felt tears well in my eyes but fought them back as I was determined to be as brave as the little boy in the bed before me. For the first time, I wished that I was a man of means so that I could find George's father and fill his pockets with whatever money he required so that he could spend Christmas Eve with his son.

I took the tyke's small hand in mine with no intention of speaking to him but somehow words spilled out of my mouth.

"When you love someone, George, they are always with you as they never leave your heart."

The precious boy looked up at me and smiled before closing his eyes and then quickly fell off to sleep.

..

Dr. Head met me after completing his rounds and we exited the hospital with Lilian who by now had completed the half day assigned to her on the eve of the holiday. She told Dr. Head and I that she was headed to Woolworths in nearby Spitalfields to purchase a Christmas tree. Lilian shared that it was made of feathers and added that was the latest rage. Dr. Head and I shook our heads in disbelief as we made our way to his car and she made hers down the street.

I was placing the poinsettia onto the back seat when I heard a tapping sound on the window. Turning to locate the source, I found Lillian signaling Dr. Head to roll it down. Once he did, she gushed, "I forgot to tell you that this morning we had a delivery of potato crisps by the same company that Mr. Bower worked for. I noticed something during his delivery that I think might have some importance. Noting she had our attention, Lilian proceeded to say that when the driver returned to the lorry after making his delivery, he found two boys in the back stuffing packages of crisps inside their shirts."

Dr. Head then interrupted Lillian by pointing out that the boys were likely in desperate need of something to eat and he hoped the driver had not called the police.

Lilian did not address Dr. Head's concern. Instead, she continued, "Can't you see what that means?"

Noting we did not, the nurse continued, "The driver didn't bother to lock the back door of the lorry. When I asked him why he didn't, he told me that it slowed down his deliveries if he had to lock and unlock the door at each of his stops. Detective Cosgrove has shared with me that one of his theories is Mr. Bower found John injured on the road somewhere along his delivery route and brought him to the hospital. But that might not be what happened at all. Fueled by the adrenaline that a body produces after an accident, John could have managed to climb into the back of Mr. Bower's lorry unbeknownst to him and then lost consciousness. Mr. Bower may not have known John was in the back of his lorry until he reached his London stop and opened the back doors."

I looked at Dr. Head and said, "Occam's Razor."

His eyes fixed on Lilian. Then me. And he smiled.

AN: Thoughts?

Sorry this update took so long. I have had my first experience with writer's block, but I refused to give in to it. I think I channeled Mr. Crawley, after all.

* I thought you all would like to know that in the next entry John will begin psychotherapy with Dr Rivers in an attempt to learn his identity. Reviews push me to write more quickly. Had to put that out there.

As has been the case all along, many of the details I've provided here are not fictional. I researched the type of tree that was used in the 1920's in the UK and came up with the Norwegian Spruce. For families that were not wealthy, the rage was feather trees in 1921. Fact. I, also, discovered what a kissing bough is, as to my knowledge, we never had them in the U.S. Henry Head and his wife Ruth are described as they are in history. Dr. Head did spend 5 years working with Dr. William Halse Rivers on an experiment which, coincidentally, was about the regeneration of damaged nerves. Dr. Head spent a great deal of time studying the effects of trauma to the spine in WW1 Soldiers. Sound familiar? Woolworths was all the rage in London in 1921. There were hundreds of stores throughout the United Kingdom and they had huge gala openings, sometimes even providing circus animals. Last but not least, the definition of Occam's Razor is spot on. I agree that the simpler theory is the better. There have been a few presented here. I wonder if you have followed the clues to find it.


	12. December 25th, 1921

December 25th, 1921

The fire in the grate is near its end as is this glorious Christmas Day. Yet I have no desire to sleep. Excitement and unbridled joy are flowing through me like the electric current that sets the chandelier in the Great Hall aglow.

I owe my euphoric state to the genius of Dr. William Halse Rivers, who has taken on the role of Father Christmas for me this day by setting a crack in the wall that has blocked my memory before Whitechapel. Though the fissure is small, the result has been anything but. A few short hours ago I was able to glimpse a moment in time that I had heretofore not known existed, along with the only person in my past that I did.

I had no idea when Mrs. Head told me Dr. Rivers would arrive Christmas morning that his presence would have such a profound affect on my life. Still, I looked forward to getting to know the acclaimed physician who Dr. Head told me would provide me my best chance of recovery.

"Dr. Rivers is brilliant, John. He is the youngest medical graduate in the history of St. Bartholomew's," my neurologist proclaimed over the clatter of plates as the maids laid our breakfast this morning.

I also learned from Dr. Head that a psychiatrist in Vienna named Joseph Breuer had achieved success in curing amnesia by regressing patients in time through hypnosis. Dr. Rivers will adhere to that line of treatment in my case in conjunction with psychotherapy.

My treatment will require my sharing my innermost thoughts and feelings in therapy sessions. Finding this to be a daunting task, I imagined it would be even more so if I would be required to divulge my hopes and fears to a near stranger and vowed to get to know Dr. Rivers as best I could before we began.

Toward that end, I decided to engage him in as much conversation as I possibly could today, and I rose swiftly from my chair when I recognized the man with the handlebar mustache and intelligent eyes entering the Dining room to offer him my hand and a "Happy Christmas."

..

Lilian Pomeroy arrived with Detective Cosgrove at about noon. The two were greeted warmly by all in the Great Hall with Dr. Head formally introducing the investigator from Scotland Yard to Dr. Rivers. Since the nurse and detective appeared at exactly the same time, it was clear that they made their way to Eaton Square together.

I was very pleased to see it as it is my hope that their relationship will progress to one beyond friendship. Lilian has come to mean a great deal to me and I have found a friend in Detective Cosgrove during the short time we have known one another.

As my former nurse crossed the room to greet Dr. and Mrs. Head, I could not help but notice she looked stunning in the blue velvet dress she wore. The style flattered her slim figure, and the color transformed her hazel eyes to that of the Channel on a sunny day.

Detective Cosgrove could not take his eyes off Lilian, though I could tell he was making a valiant attempt to do so under Dr. Head's watchful eye. Both he and Ruth greeted him with the type of smile that I knew was reserved for those they held dear. It was not in short supply as Dr. Rivers and I were also the welcome recipients of it.

Lilian passed through the center of the Great Hall on her way to greet me and I met her half way. Consequently, the two of us wound up directly under the kissing bough. Dr. Head, finding amusement in our predicament, cleared his throat to get our attention before pointing upward with a broad smile on his face.

Detective Cosgrove, however, found no humor in the situation. If not for his being delayed by his introduction to Dr. Rivers, it would have been him instead of me looking up at the mistletoe above my head. I had suspected that was the detective's plan all along and I hated to be the one to foil it. Yet tradition had to be met.

I placed my arms around Lilian and kissed the top of her head. She in turn planted a quick peck on my right cheek. It was something a brother and sister would do, and I could tell that Detective Cosgrove was pleased to see it. Even so, he saddled up to me on our way to the dining room and teased that he was unaware that amnesia affected one's awareness of their surroundings.

I knew his comment was made in jest, and responded in kind, "Perhaps your memory, too, has been diminished as you seem to have forgotten that you are the man escorting Lilian home later."

Christmas dinner was a memorable affair thanks to the excellent food that was served and lively repartee. We feasted on a perfectly cooked turkey with cranberry sauce, chestnut stuffing, roasted potatoes, gravy, and parsnips. Adding to the festive atmosphere, Mrs. Head insisted we all wear a paper crown, which seemed to amuse Dr. Rivers to no end.

Conversation bounced from one topic to the next at rapid speed, each holding my interest. I learned that Dr. Head wrote poetry and that some of his verses had been published. Dr. Rivers shared that besides his specializing in psychiatry, he was also an anthropologist. He then went on to recount some of his adventures in the Solomon Islands, where he studied the Melanesian society.

Lilian asked Detective Cosgrove why he had decided to become a police officer and he divulged that he had been interested in crime solving from an early age as both his father and grandfather had served on the force. He further relayed with pride that his father was one of the lead investigators at Scotland Yard when Jack the Ripper had wreaked havoc in Whitechapel.

I doubted that this topic of conversation would be welcome at the dinner table in any other household on Christmas Day. However, being men of science, the Doctors Head and Rivers found the still unsolved mystery at hand fascinating. I dare say we all did.

Mrs. Head inquired whether Detective Cosgrove had formed a theory as to Ripper's identity. Clearly eager to share his thoughts, he offered more than one, as did both physicians, who now felt a need to make their feelings known.

My erstwhile nurse then joined in the conversation, and it became clear that she had given the eleven grisly murders that took place forty year's ago on the streets she walks daily a great deal of thought.

Lilian's primary contention was that the murderer had medical knowledge as some of the bodies had been surgically altered; her theory shared by the two physicians as they nodded their heads in her direction

Detective Cosgrove remarked that she would make Sofia Stanley proud. He then added for those who didn't recognize the name that she was the first woman police officer at Scotland Yard, albeit on a voluntary basis. His comment led to the discussion of Lilian's recent conjecture regarding my case.

I was not surprised that I had now become the topic of conversation, considering the cast of characters at the dining table. I noticed Dr. Rivers was taking a keen interest in each of the different scenarios presented and wondered if he would explore them with me during psychotherapy. I was after all the only person in the room who on some level knew which one of the theories was correct.

As the maids brought the final course of our meal to the table, the prospect of eating more food was not that appealing. Although I felt as stuffed as the turkey before it had been carved, I managed to sample some of the delectable deserts, knowing Mrs. Head had a hand in preparing them.

The selection was enviable, from the horned cornucopia filled with stuffed dates in the center of the table down to the mince pies, sugared almonds and chocolates laid out.

Mrs. Head reminded us of the custom of eating one mince pie each of the twelve days of Christmas in order to gain good fortune. I happily obliged her and found it delicious. Then once we finished desert, our small group split in two as Ruth Head led Lilian into the Great Hall to take in the beautifully decorated Christmas tree while the men headed for the Library.

..

Dr. Head brought out his finest brandy and Cuban cigars to celebrate the occasion once we were all seated in his favorite room. Although anxious to find common ground with Dr. Rivers, I have found the taste of tobacco repulsive and declined the cheroot he offered me. That opened the door to conversation as he shared that he and Dr. Head were contemplating giving them up.

Still on the topic of tobacco, Dr. Rivers recounted that the first time he smoked it was in 1916 when he was a captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps stationed at the Craig Lockhart Hospital for Officers. He then relayed to me that it was there that he acquired his expertise in the field of psycho-therapeutics.

I had remembered from our first meeting at the London Hospital that the psychiatrist had a slight stammer. Even so, his voice was strong and filled with passion as he addressed the brave men who broke under the strain of the Great War.

Shaking his head back and forth in dismay, he shared with me that his biggest regret was that his treatment of the nervous disorders that plagued thousands who served at the Front did not guarantee they would not be shot for cowardice.

With those men now in the forefront of his mind, Dr. Rivers recounted the Christmas Truce that took place in Ypres in 1914.

"A cease-fire was called on Christmas Eve and once it went into effect, all gunfire and shelling stopped," he said in an even tone. "The Germans came out of their trenches, which were not so very far from ours, to wish our men a 'Happy Christmas'. They shook hands and sang Christmas carols together. Then, when, the truce was at an end, they returned to their posts and wrought carnage upon one other."

He paused then, the expression on his face a grimace before he spat out, "Is it any wonder so many of them went mad?"

I commented that it was a sad state of affairs that those who did survive returned home to find there were few jobs or decent places to live. Many, too, could not get the medical care they needed.

Dr. Rivers agreed, stating he pitied the fact that David Lloyd George's promise of a "land fit for heroes" had never been fulfilled.

Dr. Head and Joseph Cosgrove expressed the same sentiments, putting an end to our political discussion. Then we rose to join Mrs. Head and Liian, who I hoped would lighten the somber mood we now shared.

As we headed out of the library, I petitioned Dr. Rivers to meet with me once the festivities had ended with the hope that we could find a private space to discuss my treatment plan, and was pleased when he readily agreed to my request.

We then rejoined the ladies in the Great Hall, where Mrs. Head had been busy removing a handful of colorfully wrapped boxes from under the tree. It was clear as the gifts presented by our gracious hostess were opened, that she put a good deal of thought into choosing each of them.

Lilian was given a lovely paisley silk scarf, which she promptly wrapped around her neck, smiling from ear to ear. Joseph Cosgrove received a silver, thick barreled Parker pen engraved with his initials. Dr. River's gift came in the form of an exquisitely carved sailboat in a bottle from the West Indies, a reminder of his voyages to a place he loved.

I was the last to receive my Christmas present and Mrs. Head beamed as she handed it to me, stating she knew it was something I would make good use of. As I opened it, I was deeply touched to find a journal bound in soft, brown leather with a place carved out on the cover for my name and the year it would encompass.

Still smiling broadly in my direction, Ruth said, "I am confident that the day will come when the cover will no longer be bare."

I felt my heart swell, and offered her and Dr. Head my deepest thanks, not only for the journal, but for all they had given me.

We all remained rooted in place near the lovely tree for quite some time, enjoying it and each other's company. Then the celebration came to a swift end as Lilian reminded Detective Cosgrove that she had an early shift at the hospital.

The pair offered the Heads their heartfelt thanks and wished everyone a Happy Christmas once more before they claimed their coats and headed back to Whitechapel. Closing the door behind them, Dr. Head took his wife's hand and after thanking Dr. Rivers and I for contributing to a lovely evening, he and she retired for the night.

..

Finding ourselves alone, Dr. Rivers and I moved back to the Library in order to discuss my condition. I was curious about his plan of action, and especially how hypnosis might fit into it. Dr. Rivers explained that during hypnosis, the psychiatrist uses the power of suggestion to guide their patient to a subconscious level in their mind.

It is like peeling the layers of an onion until you reach the core, he offered as an analogy. Hopefully once there, they will recall memories that they have no knowledge of in a fully conscious state, he concluded. Then He cautioned that the hypnotic state is extremely diverse and complex and did not always produce the desired result.

"More often than not, a patient suffering from post traumatic amnesia will recover their memories on their own," John, he opined

I told him that Dr. Head shared his belief that my memory would likely be jogged by my seeing or hearing something from my past though that had not proven to be the case so far. Dr. Rivers responded that that Henry had brought him up to speed in that he knew I had not recognized any of my personal items when they were presented to me. He then implored me not to despair, insisting there still could be a trigger that would open the floodgates.

Anxious to begin our sessions, I asked Dr. Rivers when he had planned to begin our sessions. To my surprise, he responded that we could attempt hypnosis now if I were agreeable.

Quickly taking him up on his offer, I was ushered to the most comfortable chair in the room and advised to sit back and relax. Dr. Rivers then asked me to remove my jacket and tie and open the top two buttons on my shirt.

He spoke in a quiet tone and I found his voice gentle, even melodic as he asked me to take a deep breath, and then another. Then he requested that I focus on the index and middle fingers of his right hand and let him know if I felt any sensations in my body. My hands began to tingle and I alerted him of the change.

"If your eyelids begin to feel heavy," let them start… to fall… shut," he said slowly.

Then there was darkness. I was not asleep, yet neither was I totally awake. Somewhere between those realms, I heard Dr. River's voice guiding me down a long spiral staircase to the most peaceful place I have ever known.

It was there that I heard him say, "You are looking at the Grandfather clock in the corner of the room and the hands are beginning to move counter-clockwise, signaling a return to a previous time in your life."

I saw exactly what he wanted me to, the black hands of the timepiece changing course before my eyes. Soon that vision was replaced by a calendar, the sheets of paper yellowed with age. I saw a strong gust of wind pulling the pages one by one from its binding, and by the time it ceased, only one page remained. August 1918 was emblazoned across the top of it.

Dr. Rivers next told me that I would be able to view this moment in time as if I were sitting in a cinema watching a tale unfold on the screen. And not only would I see it but experience the feelings it generated.

"Where are you, John?" he asked.

At first, the vision before my eyes was not clear. It felt as though I were looking through a thin veil. Then it was just as Dr. Rivers had said it would be.

I replied that I was lying in a bed with a white metal frame in a large room with dark paneled walls. It must be a hospital, I relayed, as I am surrounded by men who all appear to be ill or injured in beds exactly like mine.

At the doctor's urging, I looked further around the room and reported that I saw a young woman wearing a nurse's uniform pouring water from a pitcher into glasses on a tray at the end of the row of beds.

"She is standing before an open window with a white curtain. It waves in the air each time a breeze comes through like a flag of truce," I reported.

"How do you feel?" came next

At that moment, I felt quite unwell. My head ached badly as did my eyes, which were swollen and so pained by the light in the room, that it was difficult for me to keep them open. The inside of my mouth was so dry that it could have been filled with cotton and a burning heat coursed throughout my entire body. Slowly, I ran my tongue over my lips, finding them raw and cracked in many places.

I took in every detail of the sad shape I was in but did not answer Dr. Rivers' question immediately as my attention was diverted to a young woman sitting in a chair next to my bed. Taking her in, I gasped.

Hearing my sharp intake of breath, Dr. Rivers changed his tack, quickly inquiring what was wrong. I responded to his first query first, launching into a catalog of what ailed me. Then I announced that in spite of my discomfort, I was quite happy because there was a very beautiful lady paying me a visit."

I was glad that there were no further questions about the room or the men that shared it with me as I could now focus my attention entirely on the dark haired beauty who was smiling at me. I welcomed it though I had the impression it was manufactured for my benefit. The same held true when I looked into her eyes. Lovely as they were, there was sadness in them that she could not mask. My gaze fell to her hands then and found she was wringing her handkerchief in her lap, overwrought. It pained me to see her that way and I desperately wanted to help.

Dr. River's asked me, "Do you know this woman?"

I wanted to say that I did as I felt like I knew her very well, but now my attention was drawn to my legs. There was something funny going on with them. They just did not feel right. Soon I realized that I could not feel them at all.

The last thing I remember is screaming, "God help me. I am paralyzed."

In the same melodic tone as when he began, Dr. Rivers said, "John, I am going to count from one to five. With each number you will become more awake and ready to return to a normal state of consciousness."

On cue, I opened my eyes and found a clearly relieved Dr. Rivers closing a bound notebook that sat on his lap.

"Henry was right about you sustaining an injury to your spine in the war. He will be pleased as he hates being wrong."

And here is where my longest entry comes full circle. I think the sun will be up soon as I have been writing for hours, my hand begging for mercy. Dr. Rivers has declared our first session a success, and I am inclined to agree with him in spite of the fact that I do not know the name of the woman who visited me at the hospital.

I have decided that my visitor's name not as important as the fact that she was there. It speaks volumes about her and what we mean to one another. Dare I say I have found my wife in that other level of consciousness that Dr. Rivers spoke of? He has told me that he would not be surprised if I did as it would explain why I began rotating my wedding band on my finger the moment she came into view and did not stop until I opened my eyes.

Dr. Head has been proven right, again. Dr. Rivers is brilliant.

Now on to peeling the onion.

AN: The next chapter is going to solve this mystery, so put this story on alert . All that will be left after that is the epilogue. Hope you refer to any Matthew fans you know

AN: Please review. A few short words mean a lot. I realize the last two chapters may have been a bit of a strain on the eyes, but I hope you enjoyed them all the same. The chapters have grown because we are coming down the home stretch. There will be one longer chapter and then the epilogue. I hope you will stay with the story until its conclusion.

As has been the case all along, this chapter contains both fiction and fact. I did a lot of research about hypnosis in this time period as it was used to treat amnesia. All three doctors, Rivers, Freud, and Breuer incorporated it in treating patients who suffered post traumatic amnesia. Dr. Breuer specialized in regressing patients in time. I am very grateful for Wikipedia. I combined what I learned by researching the topic with my own personal experience as I was hypnotized a few year's ago, though not for therapeutic purposes. Sofia Stanley was the first woman police officer at Scotland Yard. I am sure you all have heard of Jack the Ripper and the Whitechapel murders. Eleven women were brutally murdered and some mutilated back in the 1880's. The story about the Christmas Truce during WW1 is accurate. I cannot imagine shaking someone's hand one day and firing at them the next, but that is the insanity of war. Great Britain was not a "fit home for heroes" when the brave soldiers who fought for king and country returned home. There were 2 million people unemployed and good housing and medical care was scarce.


	13. January 3rd, 1923

January 3rd, 1923

"A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor." said Alexander Smith, the Scottish poet that has been likened to Tennyson. In that vein, I was made destitute while driving on a country road in Yorkshire in September, 1921, and made whole again by a chance encounter in a London hospital three day's ago. Since that time, I have spent every waking moment reacquainting myself with the life that was lost to me and the family that I have been blessed to reclaim. They sleep now, but I cannot rest peacefully until I have fully recorded the events that led up to my reversal of fortune.

It is fitting that I am doing so in this journal since it was given to me expressly for that purpose by Ruth Head, who no doubt will be delighted to see that the pages between the leather jacket as well as its cover are no longer bare.

Sadly, Dr. Rivers did not live to witness the glorious result of his efforts. In early June he was found collapsed in his college rooms at Cambridge as a result of a strangulated hernia. Though an emergency surgery was performed, it unfortunately came too late. Selfless to the end, on the morning of his death he signed a document that enabled an undergraduate in India to be awarded a diploma in Anthropology.

Dr. Head still has not fully recovered from the loss of his dear friend, which I imagine is the case for many others in the massive crowd that attended Dr. Rivers' funeral, their presence a glowing testament to the remarkable man he was. Geoffrey Harold Wooley, the acclaimed veteran who received the Victoria Cross for his brave actions at the Battle of Ypres eulogized him alongside Siegfried Sassoon, the poet who so eloquently portrayed the horrors of war in verse.

The beloved physician is interred in St. Gile's cemetery in Cambridge. At his bequest, he was cremated and the metal box containing his ashes buried alongside a long nosed bottle with a sailboat inside it. Mrs. Head wept when she learned of it.

I will be forever grateful for Dr. Rivers' efforts on my behalf during the six months that preceded his death. He worked tirelessly in his quest to peel the remaining layers of the onion, but alas the core was too deep. I can only wonder if he would have succeeded with more time.

His use of hypnosis did succeed in providing me with snippets of my past - a soldier with an uncanny resemblance to Henry Wheeler cleaning his rifle in a muddy trench, a young woman with strawberry blonde hair embroidering a pillow, a nurse with the face of an angel carrying a pile of blankets. I was allowed morsels like these as they were safe, but no more.

When Dr. Rivers used hypnotic regression to bring me back to the traumatic event that he suspected the root of my amnesia, the few details I was able to provide him were nightmarish, reminiscent of an old penny dreadful, resulting in hysteria on my part. He took my distress as a clear sign that I was not yet ready to face my demons and heeded it.

The good doctor's very last words to me were those of encouragement. "Remember that your memories are not lost but have only been moved to a different place. You have my word that until they are back in their rightful spot, I will not rest."

At long last, he can.

..

Dr. Rivers' name came up in a conversation on New Year's Eve morning as Dr. Head and I agreed that he would have been pleased that Joseph had finally mustered up enough courage to propose to Lilian. To the detective's astonishment, but not ours, Nurse Pomeroy gladly accepted him. I was surprised, however, that he found the time to court my nurse at all considering his duties at Scotland Yard plus the hours he devoted to investigating my case on his own.

During the last year, Joseph has visited every one of Mr. Bower's delivery stops, questioning both the local constables as well as the proprietors of each of the businesses. At each location, he was assured by the police that no abandoned car had been found that was involved in a collision. In fact, the only accident that took place during the same time frame was between a bus and a fuel tanker in Sowerby. That collision resulted in both vehicles going up in flames and multiple deaths, the gruesome details plastered on the front page of all the local newspapers.

Many of the deceased were so badly burned that they were unrecognizable even to their close relatives; and in a last ditch attempt to identify the dead, their family physicians were brought in to examine their remains. Joseph advised me that there were some positive identifications made in this manner before lamenting onc again the fact that no-one had come forward to identify me.

He and Lilian were to join us later that evening in Eaton Square to celebrate their engagement and ring in the New Year. Toward that end, Dr. Head and I were set to head back there after he concluded his last meeting of the day with a doctor from Yorkshire who was coming to discuss his brother's treatment.

The physician's older sibling had been admitted to the hospital a few days earlier with a mild concussion, the result of a nasty spill he took crossing a street. Dr. Head shared with me that his patient's current condition was no doubt linked to his having Parkinson's disease as the malady wreaks havoc with one's balance.

After advising my companion that I would meet him in the Trauma Ward once he was ready to leave, I rose from my seat with the intention of finding Lilian to offer her my congratulations. As I did, I heard a tapping sound behind me, which I took to mean the doctor from Yorkshire had arrived.

Turning to exit the room, I found myself thunderstruck by the silver-haired man with a mustache who stood in the archway of the open door. Frozen in place with my eyes fixed on the stranger, I found him eerily familiar to me. He remained rooted in place, too, his eyes wide as they scanned over me. Then as if he were hit by a jackhammer, his body jerked and he grabbed hold of the door frame for support.

Dr. Head's chair scraping the floor as he pushed it away from his desk broke me out of my trance; and seeing the blood draining from the man's face before me, I asked, "Are you quite well, Sir."

The stranger's bulging eyes remained glued on me as he swallowed hard and croaked, "Good God. You're alive!"

At that moment it became clear that the trigger Dr. Rivers had spoken of stood ten feet away from me. I staggered as if I had been shot and fell back into my chair as the wall that stood between me and my past began to crumble; and as it did, my first memory moved back to its rightful place.

Tears formed in my eyes as I envisioned the dark haired beauty, who I now knew to be my wife, peering lovingly into the eyes of our newborn son. Then I had a glimpse of me holding the little chap in my arms, telling the infant how happy he had made us all. It was as though I were reliving that glorious day, once more feeling as though I had swallowed a box of fireworks.

Memories cropped up in my mind like the red poppies that rose on the barren battlefields of Flanders after the Great War, each one filling in a missing piece of my past in such rapid succession that I felt my head would explode and held it between my hands.

Dr. Head rose from his chair and rushed to my side, confusion and alarm evident on his face. He then turned to Dr. Clarkson who was still rooted in the doorway and demanded, "What is the meaning of this? I need you to explain your outburst and how you are acquainted with this man immediately."

Dr. Clarkson crossed the room and stood directly before me. His eyes stayed focused on my face as he replied in a near strangled voice, "I have known Mr. Crawley for the past decade and the rest of his family even longer." He then took a deep breath and exhaled before he turned to Dr. Head and added, "I signed his death certificate on the same day that I delivered his son into the world."

..

My neurologist, stunned to the point of being rendered speechless, gripped my shoulder; whether to support me or him, I can't be sure. His hand remained there for a long moment as both he and I processed Dr. Clarkson's startling revelation. Clearly, Occam's razor did not apply in my unique situation as I now knew the reason my loved ones had not searched for me was because they believed me to be dead.

Many questions hung in the air but I asked the Crawley's family physician the one that mattered most to me "Are my wife and son well?"

Dr. Clarkson informed me that although Lady Mary had a rough go of it the first six months after losing me, she and Master George were thriving. My son's name was music to my ears as I was not certain until that moment what name Mary had settled on for our little prince. I then inquired after my Mother, who I could only imagine had been devastated by the loss of her only child.

I do not know if Dr. Clarkson responded to me or not as at that moment the memory that I had repressed at all cost began to surface, gripping me with fear. My hands began to shake and heart raced feverishly as it kept pace with my scattered thoughts. Then I felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, making it impossible for me to take a full breath.

My eyes fixed on my wedding band as the events that took place the day my son was born pushed to the forefront of my mind and my trembling worsened. I heard Dr. Head shouting for Lilian, the sound of rushed footsteps and mention of a sedative. Then there was silence as I envisioned myself driving on a narrow road that led to Downton.

The warm sun washed over me and I basked in it as well as the beauty of my surroundings, immensely pleased that one day my son would travel this same road. Returning my eyes to it, I was surprised to find there was a lorry nearly upon me. Adrenaline soared through my body and I quickly turned the wheel hard to the right to avoid the oncoming vehicle. In the process, my own plunged off the roadway, taking a nosedive into an embankment.

I reacted instinctively, threading my arms through the gap in the steering wheel to anchor myself and holding on for dear life as my car plummeted through the air and hit the ground, flipping over.

Pain coursed through every part of my body, especially my head, which worsened whenever I tried to lift it. As I lay beneath the car that thankfully hadn't crushed me, I implored God to spare me for Mary and our son's sake. Then suddenly the pain I had felt ceased and I felt a strong urge to sleep. Valiantly, I fought to keep my eyes open but am uncertain if I succeeded. No matter which, I found myself slipping into darkness.

The last sound I heard before I lost my grip on consciousness, Was Dr. Clarkson crying out, "I can't find a pulse."

...

A sensation of a needle pricking through my skin registered in my mind but was quickly forgotten as my next vision of that fateful day presented itself. I lay on a long, narrow table in near total darkness with cold air seeping into my bones. A foul smell reminiscent of dead flowers in stale water permeated the air around me, sickening my stomach.

I placed my palms flat on the chilled surface beneath me to push myself up, as I did, a blinding pain shot through my head and my left wrist, which promptly buckled. I cried out in agony, the sound echoing in my ears for a long moment, making my heart race.

Frozen in place, I attempted to take a deep breath in order to calm myself; but I could not accomplish it without experiencing further pain as my expanding lungs hit more than one bruised or broken rib. Wincing with every move, I managed to get myself into a sitting position. Then I scanned my surroundings as best I could in the dim light that emanated from what appeared to be a small window about 15 feet away.

After managing a few shallow breaths, I dangled my legs off the table for a moment before dropping down to the floor with a loud thump. Then with my arms outstretched like a blind man, I made my way toward the beacon.

Half way there, I bumped into what felt like the same type of table that I had been lying on and halted to investigate. Running my hand from slowly from the outer edge to the center of it, my fingers brushed against something cold and hard. I gasped, realizing quickly that what lie beneath my palm was a corpse.

Adrenaline soared through my body, masking my pain for the moment and I took off as if I were being chased by Lucifer, himself, knocking over another table that thankfully was empty and falling to the ground with it. Struggling for breath, I rose as quickly as I could and moved forward toward the lighted path. In it I found more tables, each supporting the charred remains of a man or woman. Some of the bodies were so badly disfigured that their sex could not be determined and bile rose in my throat.

My hands flew to my mouth to muffle the scream that rose with it as I frantically searched for a means of escape. After a minute that felt like an hour, I found a door toward the end of the room and fled through it out onto the street. It was empty except for a lorry that was parked across the way with the back panel door raised up and I bolted for it. Once inside, I hid behind some large boxes that were piled in the corner. Totally drained of energy, I closed my eyes to rest and fell asleep.

Finally breaking away from my self-induced trance, I found myself in Dr. Head's office with Lilian kneeling before me, her eyes searching mine as she did whenever I was in the throes of a night terror.

With worry etched upon her face, the woman who had nursed me back to health took hold of my hand and said, "John, everything is going to be fine."

I squeezed hers gently and nodded my head, knowing now that it would be, and declared, "My name is not John. It is Matthew - Matthew Crawley."

Tears welled in her eyes as she realized what had taken place in her absence. "Well, she said with a sly grin, "I suppose that is as good a name as any."

Standing behind me, Dr. Head patted me on the back enthusiastically, his voice booming, "I am very happy for you, dear chap. I could not be happier."

I rose to face him at the same time as Lilian, and once we were upright, she threw her arms around my neck and exclaimed, "Finally, you will get your just deserts."

Then she flew out of the room to call Joseph to tell him the good news.

I turned then to the only person in the room who was not bubbling over with joy. Finding Dr. Clarkson leaning against Dr. Head's desk with his head hung low, I could only imagine he was reliving the same day I had and asking himself how he could have made such a colossal error. Though I wondered the same thing, that question would wait. My priority now was to get back home as quickly as possible.

After some discussion, it was agreed that both doctors and Joseph Cosgrove would accompany me to Downton. This would make the drive easier as the detective would share the wheel with Dr. Head. It would also give him an opportunity to question Dr. Clarkson on the way. We would pick up the detective in Eaton Place in order to save time and so that I could retrieve some of my personal items and then set off immediately.

Dr. Clarkson made his way back to his brother to let him know he had to leave. Once he was out of hearing range, I shared my concern that if a plausible reason for his blunder were not found, Mary would skin him alive. Dr. Head rubbed his hand over his chin the way he always did when he was searching for an answer to a difficult problem. I watched him closely as he deliberated; and after about five minutes, his eyes widened and he nodded.

Spotting Dr. Clarkson coming through the door, he asked, "Are you aware that there have been recorded cases of people who were declared dead that were later found to be alive by a coroner or mortician?"

Clarkson replied that he thought that type of thing limited to the 19th century when protocols to determine death were not strictly adhered to. He then went on to say that during that period; special coffins were manufactured that included a lever inside to ensure a person would not be buried alive.

Dr. Head added to the Crawley physician's historical account by stating that he knew first hand of one man who came close. A colleague of his in Germany had declared his patient dead after performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation with no success. The man had no pulse, heartbeat, or pupilary response to light when he was sent to the morgue. As he was being moved to the funeral home, he shocked the men that were carrying his body by asking them if could have another blanket as he felt cold.

Shaking his head back and forth, Dr. Clarkson exclaimed, "That is not possible."

My neurologist countered that he, too, had found the story hard to believe; and had it not been for fact that his colleague had never exhibited a sense of humor before, he would have thought he was joking. Knowing he was dead serious (no pun intended), he had given Dr. Mueller the benefit of the doubt when he theorized that when excess pressure is applied to the chest during cardiopulmonary resuscitation is stopped; the heart may expand, in turn sending electrical impulses to restart the heartbeat.

"Did you attempt to resuscitate Mr. Crawley in this manner, Dr. Clarkson?"

Clarkson nodded," Yes I did. The lorry driver involved in the accident... Mr. Fellowes, I believe was his name... could corroborate that I did so for quite some time."

At that point, Dr. Head stated that it was his belief that Dr. Clarkson saved my life.

Still not entirely convinced, the family physician declared that it would have taken a miracle for me to have been brought back to life in this manner.

"What I have just described to you has been proven medically possible," Dr. Head stated flatly. Then after pausing a few seconds, declared, "In my opinion, the divine intervention took place in 1921 when Matthew Crawley was brought to the very hospital that your brother occupies now and treated by the same physician, leading you to discover he was alive. If that is not miraculous, I do not know what is."

...

As I passed through the doors leading out of the hospital, I turned to take a last look at the place that had brought me salvation and promised myself I would not become a stranger to it. There were memories here, people that touched my life that I would never forget. I appreciated the irony in that and smiled. Then I got into Dr. Head's car, overjoyed that I would begin 1923 with Mary and my son in my arms.

Reaching Eaton Square, we found Mrs. Head and Joseph with their noses pressed to the window. She was upon me as soon as I walked through the door, pulling me into an embrace and remarking that this was one of the happiest days she had ever known.

As soon as she released me, Joseph grabbed my hand and exclaimed, "And here I thought my engagement to Lilian would be the big news of the day."

I went to my room and packed a small bag, then raced back down the stairs. There I found Mrs. Head kissing her husband's cheek as she always did when they were parting ways. She then embraced me again before wishing the three of us a safe trip and nearly pushing us out the front door

As soon as Dr. Head veered the car away from the townhouse onto the road, Joseph turned to Dr. Clarkson and asked him if he knew the reason why none of my family had asked to see my body. I had wondered as much myself since I learned I had been declared dead and was quite anxious to hear his explanation.

Clarkson replied that the Crawleys were told that my remains had accidentally been cremated. Then noting the incredulous look on Detective Cosgrove's face, he added that the proprietor at Graspeys Funeral Home had stated that the unfortunate situation came about as a result of his employees being overwhelmed with work due to a collision between a tanker and bus in Thirsk, the bodies of those who perished being housed there at the same time as Mr. Crawley's.

I saw Joseph's eyes widen as Dr Clarkson had relayed the same information that had been given to him during his interviews.

"I guess that might be believable if I didn't know that Mr. Crawley left the funeral home on his own two feet," Joseph asserted. Adding, "A much more likely scenario, however, is that Graspeys, having realized they lost his body, presented some other deceased's ashes to his family to cover their mistake." With grim determination, he added, "That is fraud and they will pay for their deception."

Dr. Head told Joseph there was no doubt they would with him on the case, and I heartily agreed. It was quite disconcerting to learn that this journal is not the only place where my name is engraved. The thought of "Matthew Reginald Crawley" etched onto a headstone in the Downton cemetery still makes a shiver run up my spine.

Dr Clarkson, his face contorted with anger at what had taken place, added it would please my wife and mother to no end if charges were pressed as they had been livid that they were denied closure by not seeing my body.

As we made our way toward our destination, the two doctors continued discussing the scientific explanation for my resurrection, interrupted intermittently by Joseph whenever a new question came to mind; and after an hour or so, I found myself lost in my own thoughts. Astounded as I was by the events of the day, it all seemed like a dream.

Drawing closer to Downton, I could not help but wonder what I would find there. Dr. Clarkson had told me that my wife and child were doing well, but he offered no other news. It occurred to me that Mary may have moved on with her life and found love again. The thought made my stomach lurch so badly that I needed to roll down the side window a bit to get some air.

Next my thoughts turned to George as I wondered what his reaction to seeing me would be. I was after all a stranger to him. That hurt a bit before I reminded myself of how blessed I was that it would not be so forever. At that, Dr. Rivers voice rang out in my mind reminding me that the only thing worrying alters is your serenity. Determined to put what I learned from him to good use, I stopped fretting and took in the lovely scenery as we made our way, reminding myself of the joy that would soon be mine.

Dr. Clarkson was expected at Downton. He had called Robert from Eaton Square and explained that he needed to see him that evening to discuss an urgent matter. My father-in-law balked at first, stating that he had guests staying on at Downton to celebrate New Year's Eve. However, Clarkson would not be put off. It took some doing, but thankfully he managed to persuade him to allow the visit.

Our plan of action was that Dr. Head would park the car in the rear of the house, where I would remain with Joseph standing guard. He and Dr. Clarkson would meet with Robert first to announce that I was alive and on Downton's grounds, filling him in on the all the details since my automobile accident. The Earl would then request a family meeting in order to have the two physicians break the news to the rest of the Crawleys. Once my family had recovered from the shock, Dr. Head would bring them up to speed regarding my amnesia and where I had been up to this point. Then either he or Dr. Clarkson would come to get me.

All I had to do was to sit and wait. Though considering how long I had been waiting, I knew that would be easier said than done. Nonetheless, I agreed to fulfill my part of the plan.

We arrived at Downton in record time thanks to Dr. Head's heavy foot on the gas pedal, and he and Dr. Clarkson wasted no time in setting the wheels in motion. Once the car was parked, the two physicians nearly bolted from it and began walking at a fast pace toward the house while I and Joseph remained behind. The last thing any of us wanted was for one of the servants to discover me before an explanation had been provided to my family. Toward that end, Joseph paced back and forth between the house and vehicle, keeping a close eye out for any movement, while I slumped down in my seat with the brim of my hat angled down over my face in the unlikely event someone got past him.

I was especially worried for those that weren't as spry as they once were. Though I knew that Cousin Violet was made of stern stuff, her heart had been tested a great deal in the past few years. I recalled, too, how Mr. Carson had collapsed one evening in the dining room when under too much pressure. My hope was that no-one would suffer any ill effects due to the shock of seeing me alive. But if that were to happen, at least there would be two physicians front and center.

Every so often, I would raise myself up in my seat enough to peer out the window as "sitting and waiting" was proving to be more difficult than I had even imagined it would be. It seemed hours since I saw the physicians turning the corner of the house and I grew more and more restless by the second. Seeing the coast was clear, I flagged Joseph to inquire how much time had passed since Dr. Head and Clarkson had left us. He gave me a sympathetic look before informing me they had only been gone 10 minutes. Accepting that my conception of time had been altered by my impatience, I rolled the window back up nearly to the top and hunkered down.

..

The realization that I soon would be reunited with those I loved made my heart race with anticipation, making it difficult for me to sit still. My foot tapped on the floorboard of the car to the beat of a nameless tune that ran through my head while my fingers followed suit on my thigh. Then the sound of someone walking on the gravel path filtered through the small crack I had left in the window, putting an end to my fidgeting.

'Hello, my name is Isobel Crawley' came next, the sound of my mother's voice making my heart stop for a moment. Slowly, I pushed myself up in my seat to get a glimpse of what was transpiring on the other side of the glass. Peering through it, I found Mother and Joseph chatting as though they were old friends. Then my heart soared as I caught sight of Mary standing in the courtyard, bouncing in place with her arms wrapped around her, a beautiful bundle of nervous energy.

Sudden silence brought my attention back to Mother, who I found headed straight for me at a brisk pace. It took all the willpower I could muster not to fling the car door wide open but I stayed put, fearing she might collide with it if I did. She would have, too, as in the wink of an eye, her face was pressed against the window that stood between us. The sight made me feel the same way I did on my first day of school when I found her waiting outside for me at the end of the day; and just as I had then, I waved and smiled. Seeing me, her face lit up brighter than a full moon as she mirrored my smile. Then she pulled hard on the handle of the door with one hand while waving my wife on with the other.

Mary bolted from the doorway as I made my way out of the car, and no sooner was I was on my feet, than she plowed into me with such force that if not for the car at my back, we both would have toppled over. Her arms locked around my neck and I wrapped her tightly in my own. Then I heard her murmur, "God, if I have gone mad, I beg you to keep me this way."

Slowly, I unraveled her arms and nudged her back so that I could look at her; and I was so overwhelmed by the sight that I found it difficult to speak. Seconds passed in complete silence until I finally managed to choke out her name. Then I took her face between my hands and kissed her.

Mary's lips were soft and her mouth molded perfectly to mine. Our kiss, gentle at first, deepened quickly as our bodies and hearts reconnected with one another. I cannot say how long we remained that way, but when we did break apart, I swept her off her feet and spun her in the air as I had the glorious night she accepted my marriage proposal.

Once I placed her back down on the ground, I took off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Taking hold of her hands, I looked deeply into the most beautiful brown eyes I have ever seen and found they were brimming with tears. At once, I was reminded of all she had been through since the day our son was born, her courage and resilience leaving no doubt in my mind that she was 'a storm braver if I ever saw one'.

She managed a trembling smile and then attempted to apologize for her state; but I wouldn't hear of it. She was one of the bravest women I had ever known and I told her as much. Then a small voice inside my head reminded me there was another whose courage matched Mary's.

I felt a twinge of guilt as I spotted Mother standing a few yards away next to Joseph. The feeling grew stronger when I noticed he had his hand on her arm as if he were steadying her. Mentally, I berated myself that I had become so engrossed in Mary that I had forgotten she had not come for me alone.

Quickly, I inquired if she were feeling well. She replied that she could not be better and moved away from the detective in order to prove it. I looked to my dear friend for confirmation that she was, in fact, steady and Joseph nodded in my direction. Then with my left arm wrapped securely around Mary, I pulled Mother close with my free hand.

She kissed my cheek and said, "My darling boy. I could not have imagined this moment even in my wildest dreams. Surely, I am witness to a miracle."

As we three stood close together, I asked if Dr Clarkson or Dr Head had explained how I had survived the accident and where I had been all this time.

Mary replied, "Isobel and I did not stay long enough to hear all the details. Once the doctor from London confirmed Dr Clarkson was not suffering a delusion and revealed your whereabouts, we flew from the room as if it were ablaze and made our way here."

Beaming at Mother, she added that the reason she was the one who came to the car to claim me was that she had more courage. I shook my head in disagreement, insisting they both were very brave before I planted a quick peck on their cheeks.  
Then remembering my manners, I turned to Joseph and formally introduced him to my lovely wife.

Eyeing her approvingly, Joseph took her hand and kissed it before saying. "I must confess that I assumed Matthew exaggerated your beauty when he spoke of you, Lady Mary. Clearly I was mistaken.

I saw a mischievous twinkle in Mary's eye that I had seen dozens of times before as she replied, "My husband is not prone to exaggeration, Detective Cosgrove," adding without jest that she was grateful for his compliment and most especially his support of my mother.

I was about to suggest we get out of the cold when I noticed some of the servants gathering outside the back entrance to the house and I alerted Joseph, "Since it appears the cat is out of the bag, I think it safe that we make our way inside."

He nodded and offered my mother his arm, holding his stance while she kissed my cheek before she looped her arm through his. As she did, he smiled broadly at her; and I felt certain that I was witnessing the birth of a new friendship.

The servants parted like the Red Sea for Moses so that the two could pass freely into the house; and once they did, focused their eyes on Mary and me. I could not take mine from Mr. Molesley, my former valet, who stood in the center of the group resembling a goldfish peering out of his bowl at a cat. Stifling a laugh, I began to address the crowd, but halted immediately upon hearing him moan and then seeing him swoon. Thankfully with the assistance of a maid, who was foreign to me, at his side, he quickly righted himself.

It took Molesley a few moments to compose himself. Once he had, he stepped forward and took a firm hold of my hand and began shaking it with so much vigor that it precipitated Mary, whose arm was looped through mine, to jerk free of me. Then he proceeded to dab at his eyes with a good sized handkerchief and blow his nose into to.

Once done with his ministrations, he apologized to Mary, who he apparently had just noticed, and then offered, "Welcome home, Mr. Crawley. My belief that life is inherently unfair is not as strong as it was a few minute's ago."

My eyes went next to Mr. Carson, who stood with his mouth agape, a sight I found thoroughly amusing and doubt I will ever forget. To his left was Mrs. Hughes with a huge grin planted on her face and a finger poking the head butler in the side in an earnest attempt to break him out of his spell. Fortunately, her perseverance won out, and Carson stepped forward with his mouth closed and head bowed.

Raising his eyes to meet mine, he said, "Mr. Crawley, I am not often lost for words, but at this moment I can find none that will adequately express how pleased I am to see you."

I thanked him for the kind words he had found and offered him my hand, which he grasped firmly and shook, though with more restraint than my former valet had.

He turned to Mary then and smiled, "Milady, I am overjoyed that Mr. Crawley has returned to you."

She, too, thanked him, adding that she would never forget how he supported her in what she considered the darkest days of her life.

Mrs. Hughes, now wiping away her tears, said "You are a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Crawley."

Once the head housekeeper and butler stepped off to the side, Anna and John Bates came into view. Mary's lady's maid was overwhelmed with emotion, her eyes rimmed with tears and lips trembling. I glanced at my wife and found her eyes focused intently on Anna, likely readying herself as I was to intervene if need be to assist her and Bates, who was leaning heavily on his cane while propping up his wife.

Thankfully, Anna was able to regain her composure quickly and soon gave her husband a sign that she no longer required his assistance. Seeing she was now in better control of herself, Bates stepped off.

Anna welcomed me home before turning to Mary and saying, "Mi'Lady…I have prayed each day for your happiness, but even in my wildest dreams, I never could have imagined this."

My wife, deeply touched by her devotion and sentiment, replied that she doubted anyone could have foreseen my return though she was grateful that both their prayers were answered. She reached for Anna then, forgoing conventional rules, and drew her close.

Mr. Bates came to his wife's side and smiled, "Mr. Crawley, I don't know how this is possible, but thank God that it is. It is wonderful to have you back."

As the Bates moved back in place, snow began to fall, putting a halt to any further declarations as the servants rushed back into the house and their preparations for their New Year's Eve party.

Mary and I stood alone outside the house with snow falling on our heads, reminiscent of the night we became engaged; and after taking a quick walk down memory lane, we kissed.

Then with our arms locked once more, we headed for home.

..

Making our way through the Servants' Hall, we caught a glimpse of Mrs. Patmore comforting Daisy. I could only assume that the kitchen maid was thinking of the sweet lad who would never return to Downton and said a quick prayer for her and the footman who died saving my life. Mary gestured for me to go ahead and I did so, assuming she wanted to be certain Mrs. Patmore had the situation in hand.

My wife quickly caught up with me and we soon found Joseph and Mother waiting for us at the stairwell that led to the main floor. My good friend made it clear that he expected us to take the lead and I nodded in agreement. Yet before doing so, I needed to make myself presentable. Toward that end, I solicited Mary to adjust my tie as she was a master at it and then retrieved my suit jacket from her shoulders, leading Joseph to proclaim it looked much better on her.

In complete agreement with the detective, I gave him no argument and offered my arm to Mary. Linked together again, the two of us looked at one another and sighed in unison before taking the first steps that led to the main floor and our family.

We found the Crawleys and their close relations gathered around the massive Christmas tree in the Great Hall, too engrossed in their conversations to notice us at first. Then the sound of someone gasping alerted us that we had been spotted. In seconds, Robert and Cora took off in our direction with Edith, Cousin Rosamund, and Lady Rose MacClare following close behind.

My in-laws weren't in the lead for long, however, as Tom, bolted toward Mary and me with the speed and precision of a cannon ball that had just been fired; and for the second time that day, my wife dropped my arm and ran for cover.

My brother-in-law reached me in seconds, pulling me into bear hug and crying out, "Good Lord, I cannot believe me eyes! I needed two shots of whiskey to calm me when Dr. Clarkson told us the news."

No doubt having realized he was cutting off my air flow, Tom released me and stepped back. His retreat gave the rest of the family open space, which they quickly took advantage of.

Robert, clearly emotional over my return, clasped my hand warmly and welcomed me back home as his son, adding that I had made him a believer in miracles. Before long, my mother-in-law was tapping him on his shoulder, a gentle reminder that she, too, wanted to spend some time with me. The Earl obliged her, as he most often did, smiling broadly as he headed off to join Mary. I could see the two of them out of the corner of my eye rejoicing in the moment, he kissing her forehead and she beaming up at him.

The ladies that remained echoed the lovely sentiments already expressed. Then my mother-in-law and Mary led me toward the drawing room, where I learned Cousin Violet had been relegated by the two physicians I found missing from the room. Noticing they were not the only ones, I inquired after Mother and Detective Cosgrove and found they had joined the other absentees.

Cora explained that Dr. Head and Clarkson thought it best that the Dowager Countess be introduced to me in a controlled setting in the event the shock of seeing me too much for her. She added that though the physicians got their way, Violet would not let either of them near her. In fact, she outright hit Dr. Clarkson over the hand with her cane when he attempted to check her pulse. I repressed a grin upon hearing it, though didn't have to do so for long as a second later, we were informed that the matron of the family had allowed Mother to check her vital signs.

Though Mary initially thought the precautionary measure unnecessary, I agreed with it, reminding her that though tough as nails, her grandmother had suffered a great deal in the last few years. Mary contemplated what I had to say and soon concurred with my point of view. So much so, in fact, that she raced into the drawing room ahead of Cora and me to be certain that her "Granny" was well.

Edith took Mary's place, and the two women ushered me across the room to where Violet was seated. On our way, I spotted Dr. Head in deep conversation with Cousin Rosamund. As I passed them, I could not help but hear him telling her she could have passed me on the street and would not have recognized me. She appeared perplexed by his assertion until he further explained that the mind only allows what is logical and forgoes the rest.

As I moved out of range to hear any more of their conversation, I thought it was quite possible that we had come within close proximity of one another in Eaton Square as Dr. Head's home was situated quite close to the Painswick property.

As we continued to move forward, I saw that the Dowager Countess' eyes grew wider with each step that brought me into view. Then as I stood directly before her, she stopped tapping her cane, smiled broadly up at me, and reached out her hand to take mine.

"I am a firm believer in the maxim, 'You cannot keep a good man down' Violet said with a sly grin before adding, "I must admit, however, that I did not think that applied to those we buried."

I told her that I was exceedingly pleased to find that she had not lost any of her wit in my absence. Then, after spending a good amount of time chatting with three generations of Crawley women, I set off to rejoin my favorite one.

Although I was overjoyed to be home with my family, I ached to hold my son in my arms for what would be only the second time in both our lives. While on my way to tell Mary as much, Clarkson stopped me to bid me "Good Night," as he was needed at the hospital. I was grateful that he did as I did not want him to leave without offering him my heartfelt thanks.

"This evening seems to be a moment in time where the right words are elusive for many, including me," I said, clasping his hand. "I believe Dr. Head's hypothesis is correct - that your ministrations did, in fact, save my life. A simple 'Thank You' does not seem enough."

Dr. Clarkson smiled broadly before responding, "Whether it was my doing or intervention by the divine that brought you back, I am thrilled to see the happy faces in this room because of it. Your sentiment is appreciated, but the sight before my eyes is more than adequate thanks to last me a lifetime." He paused then and sighed, "I feel as if a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders as I was plagued by doubt as to whether I could have done more for you that day. How wonderful it makes me feel to know that I did not fail you after all...I confess I feel rather giddy at the moment."

We both smiled at that before we parted and he headed off to find Mother. As I saw the two of them conversing with such ease in the corner of the room, I could not help but think they made quite a good match, and resolved that I would mention that to her when our lives had returned to normal.

As the physician passed through the threshold of the room, I got back on track to join Mary but was halted once more as Tom fell in my path. It was so wonderful to chat with him again that I found it difficult to break away. However, after a few minutes, I reluctantly did. Then finally reunited with Mary, the two of us made our way to the staircase that led up to nursery.

Two chaps that I had never met before were standing huddled together not far from our destination looking very much like fish out of water. As we came upon them, Mary seemed a bit flustered. She composed herself quickly, however, and introduced me to Mr. Charles Blake and Lord Gillingham, who I assumed were the house guests that Robert had mentioned to Clarkson. We made small pleasantries for a moment or two before excusing ourselves to visit our son.

..

My heart beat faster with each step that brought me closer to the nursery as I feared George's reaction upon seeing me. I certainly didn't want to frighten the little chap and knew that my own heart would sink if he started bawling when Mary introduced him to me. That was the only reason I didn't leap up the stairs to see him once I was inside the house.

Mary did her best to reassure me that our son would come to love me as she did. Yet still, I was a bundle of nerves when the moment I had hoped for and feared in equal measure was upon me.

We found George in his Nanny's arms, freshly bathed and ready to be put down for the night. While I stood rooted in place, mesmerized by him, he began squirming with excitement at the sight of his mother and cried out, "Mama...Mama..."

Mary quickly made her way to our son and took him from his caretaker, planting a kiss on his head before she turned to release the Nanny from her duties.

"Thank you, Mi'Lady," said the stout woman with dark hair pushed into a white cap. "If you will excuse me, I'm going to attend to Miss Sybbie's bath."

Mary nodded in the nanny's direction and then returned her attention to George, who was clearly fascinated by the gold necklace she was wearing and doing his utmost to get hold of it.

I remembered the tiny baby with dark hair that Mary had placed in my arms. Marveling at the difference in his appearance, I exclaimed, "Mary, the color of his hair has changed!"

A strand of George's golden locks fell onto his forehead as he grappled with his mother to get hold of her necklace, and Mary pushed it back in place as she had done so often for me. She then said that with each month that passed, George's hair became lighter and lighter until he appeared as he did now - a miniature version of me.

I balked that her claim could not be true as he was the most beautiful baby I had seen, and then broke out into laughter as he took a firm hold on the gold chain around her neck.

Prying one tiny finger at a time from her necklace, Mary offered, "Would you like to hold him, Matthew?"

I did but was afraid he would be frightened as I was foreign to him and said as much to her. At that, Mary did her best to assuage my fear by telling me that she often had shown our son the framed portrait that stood on her nightstand that depicted the two of us on our wedding day.

She then spoke to George in a gentle tone as she passed him over to me. "Remember your Papa from the picture in Mama's room, darling. This is your Papa."

I held my breath as he stared at me, watching his expression change as he formulated what his mother had told him and filled with pride that he was able to do so at such a young age.

After a long moment, George reached out one tiny hand in my direction and cried out, "Papa."

The sound of it made my heart feel as though it would burst with happiness; and after kissing his forehead as his Mama had, I smiled, "Yes, my dear little chap. I am your Papa."

..

I didn't want to put him down though I knew he was sleepy as he yawned more than once in my arms. The feel of him was glorious and I reveled in the scent of talcum powder and baby soap that lingered on him after his bath.

Mary sat down on Sybbie's bed and with happy tears in her eyes as I rocked our son to sleep. Cradling George's head against my chest, I hummed a lullaby that I recalled Tom had when putting Sybbie down for the night. I stopped just long enough to plant a kiss on the top of his head, feeling certain I just had a glimpse of heaven.

Once Mary saw that our son was fast asleep, she took him from me and followed suit before laying him in his crib and covering him with a pale blue blanket that lay at his feet. Then we two stood side by side peering down at our little prince as he slept peacefully.

After a long moment, she reminded me that I had told her I would explain what had happened to me once we were alone. I took a deep breath and shared my newfound memories of what took place after I left her and our newborn baby at the hospital.

Mary was shocked and angered to learn of my ordeal, especially as it pertained to Graspeys. The knowledge that I woke in the funeral home and what I had found there hit her hard and she wept. Her tears turned to rage, however, once she learned that Graspeys had presented someone else's ashes as mine to the Crawleys; and she vowed they would pay for their deception.

She made my rehashing the painful events that took place on that tragic day and those that followed much easier just by being my Mary. Her eyes locked with mine throughout, hand taking mine whenever she knew I was faltering; and once I had finished, she wrapped her arms around me and held on until she felt the tension leave my body. I could only hope at that moment that I could offer her the same, knowing how she had suffered.

Judging by the length of time we had spent in the nursery, I knew the dinner gong would ring before long and apologized to Mary that I had not packed any clothes that were not essential. Mary responded that she could care less if I changed for dinner but if I wanted to, my wardrobe had not been touched. Every item of my clothing remained as it had been the day we traveled to Duneagle.

She shared with me that many times during the first year after I was gone, she would go into my Dressing Room and rummage through my clothes as it soothed her.

Dr. Clarkson had told me about her state during the first six months after my presumed death. Now I got a glimpse of how much of "a rough go" it had been for my wife.

I told Mary how sorry I was to put her through it all but she would not accept my apology. Instead she blamed herself for insisting we go to Duneagle and convincing me to stay behind when she came back to Downton with Anna.

"If I had listened to you and not been so stubborn, perhaps the accident would never have happened," she cried.

I took her in my arms and did my best to convince her that the only person responsible for my accident was I as I had taken my eyes off the road and overreacted to the sight of an oncoming vehicle. Once my case was put forth, I remained silent, hoping it was effective.

After a long moment, Mary looked up at me and smiled, "You truly are an excellent solicitor, you know."

I thanked her, feeling inwardly pleased that I had managed to erase the guilt she had carried since the day we were separated so tragically. Then I pulled her close and kissed her, grateful beyond measure that she was back in my arms.

We soon found ourselves in the throes of passion, but it was doused as though a bucket of cold water had been thrown upon us by the clashing of metal that indicated dinner would be served soon.

..

Taking my place at the dining table, I was happy to hear that Robert had insisted that Mrs. Head and Lilian come to Downton to share in the celebration. They would be picked up at the train station at 11:00 o'clock in time to ring in the New Year with their loved ones. It pleased me to no end to know that my two families would meet and get to know one another.

My father-in-law then added that Mr. Blake and Lord Gillingham had decided that it best that they return to London in order to give the family the opportunity to enjoy our reunion in private. Mary looked quite relieved to hear it, which led me to wonder why she would be. I pushed that thought out of my head for the moment and diverted my attention to the lively dinner conversation taking place, especially Dr. Head bantering with Cousin Violet. As I listened to the two for a minute or so, I concluded that the Dowager Countess had finally met her match, and could not help but smile.

The neurologist seemed surprised when Cousin Violet informed him that I was the heir to Downton Abbey, though not impressed by the knowledge that he and his wife had housed a future Earl. That didn't surprise me a bit as I have seen that Henry Head does not judge others by their title or wealth, but by their character. I believe the same holds true for the Dowager, even though she does her best to hide it.

The physician and matriarch then launched into a conversation about the flu, which resulted in an uncomfortable few minutes for Cora as her bout with the disease led to Miss O'Brien's name being mentioned. Mary had advised me earlier that the maid had left Downton like a thief in the night to go to India with Lady Flintshire, Robert's cousin Susan. The woman apparently not only had the gall to pilfer my mother-in-law's maid; but adding insult to injury, she managed to get Cora and Robert to agree to have Rose live under their roof and to present her at Court this Season.

Not realizing that the subject at hand was unwelcome, Robert kept the conversation going to the point that his wife drained her glass of wine and Mary shot daggers at him with her eyes. The tension in the room palpable, I did my best to quell it by steering him off the topic and onto the recent archaeological find in the Valley of the Kings, receiving a bright smile from my wife for my efforts.

Conversation continued to flow as freely as the wine during dinner, and it soon became clear that Joseph Cosgrove and Tom were fast becoming friends. Sharing a deep interest in politics, the two were inseparable throughout the night. So much so, that when we had retired to the drawing room, he and the detective paired up to pick up Downton's two last guests from the train station.

...

Mrs. Head and Lilian arrived at about 11:30, and I took charge of making all the introductions as well as the formal announcement that Miss Pomeroy and Detective Cosgrove became engaged to be married the night before. The family already knew that Lilian was the detective's fiancé' but this was the first time the news was shared with Lilian present.

The happy couple was bombarded with well wishes as Robert filled glasses with champagne and passed them around. As was tradition, the Servants were enjoying their own festivities down stairs. It reminded me how Richard Carlisle, the newspaper magnate that Mary had been engaged to, had complained about their doing so years earlier. I recalled, too, how she had put him in his place over his comment, and I smiled.

Then my musings came to a quick end as I spied Lilian whispering something in Joseph's ear before she headed off to join Mary. Taking the vacated spot beside him, the two of us looked on as the women we loved became acquainted with one another.

"You are a very lucky man, Matthew," he said, his head inclined in Mary's direction.

I told him he would get no argument from me on that score, adding, "As are you, Joseph."

I knew that Mary was made aware of Lilian's efforts on my behalf at the London Hospital by Dr. Head during dinner and had been looking forward to meeting her to thank her for the part she played in my recovery.

The moment at hand, I saw Mary grasp Lilian's and offer, "I am forever in your debt."

My former nurse smiled my way before returning her gaze to Mary, replying that she wished she could have done more. Then she added, "It is not every day that a man as kind and good as Mr. Crawley comes into your life."

At that moment Dr. Head interrupted the two as he needed to speak with Lilian about one of the patients at the hospital, and they set off to find a private place to discuss whatever matter needed to be addressed.

Mary remained rooted in place for a moment with a contemplative expression on her face before she set her sights on me. As she turned my way, I noticed quickly that her cheeks were flushed and eyebrows raised high.

Joseph nudged me and said, "I have a feeling you may have some explaining to do, old chap."

"It would seem so," I replied, narrowing my eyes at him as Mary drew near.

By the time she reached us, the detective's expression changed to one of complete innocence, and he bowed his head and excused himself to refill his champagne glass.

Still appearing piqued, Mary took my arm and guided me to a spot out of ear shot of our family members and guests. And then the hammer came down.

"Did you ever come to the realization that Miss Pomeroy was in love with you?" she asked.

I began to stammer like a fool, finding it impossible to form a complete sentence.

Seeing me squirm, Mary took pity on me and smiled, "Don't worry, darling, I have no doubt that Lilian Pomeroy is devoted to Detective Cosgrove, even though you still occupy a special place in her heart."

I nodded as I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Then my attention was diverted by shrieks of laughter as our bone of contention giggled like a school girl over something her beloved was whispering in her ear.

Taking in the happy couple, Mary frowned and then sighed, "I much rather you had been nursed back to health by someone closer to Isobel's age...preferably with a wrinkle or two and graying hair."

At that, I couldn't help but join in the laughter.

The tension between us thankfully gone, Mary and I chatted about George as we kept our eye on the clock on the mantle, which was nearing midnight. During a lull in our conversation, I glanced around the room and found those I loved in high spirits. Edith was regaling Mother and Cousin Violet with a joke; Tom embroiled in an animated conversation with Cousin Rose regarding the tooth fairy; the Heads chatting amiably with Robert, Cora and Cousin Rosamund as though they were old friends; and Lilian popping a canopy into Joseph's mouth with precision.

Soon thereafter, we stood together in the center of the room while Robert raised his champagne glass and shouted "Happy New Year." Then looking directly at Mary and me, he added that there never had been a happier one.

As I pulled Mary close and kissed her, I could not have agreed with him more.

With a grin from ear to ear, I then joined my mother. Taking her hands in mine, I kissed her cheek and wished her a happy new year.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes, "It is now my darling boy...It is now."

...

The festivities ended about an hour later and Mary and I made our way to our bedroom. No sooner had the door closed behind us, I took my beautiful wife in my arms and kissed her the way I had yearned to from the moment I first laid eyes on her. Our passion was ignited quickly, and before long, our clothes were strewn about the room as we rediscovered one another. It was as though we two had been starved and now found a feast placed before us. In that vein, we gorged ourselves until we could not take another bite.

Exhausted by travel and the whirlwind of activity that took place since my arrival, I looked forward to sleep. Yet this was the first opportunity Mary and I had to speak to one another without interruption and there was much to share.

Perhaps it should not have been foremost on my mind, but I knew that if I were to rest peacefully, I must get an answer to the question that had nagged me since dinner.

Biting the bullet, I blurted, "Have you been romantically involved with either Mr. Blake or Lord Gillingham?"

Mary raised her head off my shoulder, propped her head on her elbow so that we were eye level, and replied, "They both have been vying for my attention for some time…and thinking you were lost to me forever, I encouraged them." Then she lowered her head, and added in a strangled voice, "I was so terribly lonely, Matthew."

It pained me to see her this way as I imagined her confession just a small glimpse of the rough time Dr. Clarkson had informed me she had.

I placed my hand underneath her chin, bringing her head back up so we were once more looking into each other's eyes.

"You did nothing wrong, darling," I assured her. How could you not have been lonely?"

At that, she managed a weak smile and continued, "I will not lie to you and say I was not attracted to them both...but that feeling evaporated as quickly as a drop of water under an August sun in Cannes the moment I saw you. You alone own my heart, Matthew."

There was no doubt in my mind that this was true, and I did my best to convey to Mary that I had never felt more loved or wanted than I did since my return, hoping my words convinced her that I did not doubt hers.

Truth be told, though I was grateful for her honesty and her commitment to me, had her response been different, I would not love her any less.

Picturing her suitors, however, did grate on my nerves. There is no logic to it, but one part of me still feels like thrashing them both while another feels obliged to thank them for keeping Mary out of the doldrums. I know firsthand how it feels to battle depression, and cannot help but feel grateful to both Gillingham and Blake if they spared her even a moment of it.

It is also true that although I feared Mary may have found another, I would have wanted her to if I had not survived the accident. She was much too young to remain alone, and our son would have needed someone to guide him in life should I have lost that privilege.

Caught up in my musings, I hadn't taken notice of how long she had been silent or realized that her body had tensed. Now aware that something was wrong, I asked her what was troubling her.

Her breath hitched as her own thoughts were interrupted. Then she hesitantly replied to my question with her own, "Was there someone special in your life, Matthew? I know that Miss Pomeroy was enamored with you; but did you have any interest in pursuing a relationship with her?"

I had hoped our discussing my former nurse could have waited till after I had a good night's sleep, but addressed Mary's question quickly, knowing my response would enable her to have one.

"I came to love Lilian as I would a sister had I been so blessed," I said, defining our relationship. "You asked me earlier if I knew that Lilian had been in love with me. The only reason I didn't answer you then was because I became flustered by that look in your eye."

Said eyes widened in mock horror and indignation, but I wasn't having any of it. "You know what look I'm referring to, darling, so don't play the innocent."

She huffed, and then nodded her head, conceding my point.

Feeling vindicated, I continued, "It was Joseph who planted the idea of Lilian having romantic feelings for me in my head. He visited me at the hospital regularly to keep me abreast of any progress he made in learning my identity. It was during that time, that he got to know Nurse Pomeroy, and he fell head over heels for her. Smitten as he was, he searched for the best way of extracting her from my side so that she could get to know him better. It was not easy for him to do so as Lilian was…was…quite dedicated to me."

With this, Mary loudly cleared her throat and began to gag.

Once she had composed herself, I narrowed my eyes at her and shook my head. Then after clearing my own throat, continued, "As I said… Lilian was dedicated to me. Fortunately, Joseph thought of a way to use that to his advantage by asking that I recommend him to her, perhaps sing his praises a bit during one of our conversations."

At that point, I paused as I attempted to recollect exactly what happened next.

Mary frowned with impatience and motioned for me to continue by rolling the index finger of her free hand in a circle in front of my face.

Sensing her frustration, I replied hastily, "I got Lilian to agree to have a picnic with Joseph at the park...and the rest is history."

"And this led you to believe your nurse was in love with you?" she interjected, clearly dumbfounded.

I slapped my hand to my forehead, "Sorry..I see that makes no sense." Then after pausing to get it right, I explained, "Joseph actually told me Lilian was in love with me when I asked him why he would think my commendation held any weight. Upon hearing his startling revelation, I searched my mind to ascertain if there was any truth in it."

"And you found there was," Mary said flatly, answering her own question.

I didn't want to upset her, but I never lied to her before and would not start now. Though it pained me to do so, I told her that I had found Joseph's assertion had merit. However, I offered no details as to why I came to that conclusion.

Mary remained silent for a long moment as she contemplated my answer and then declared, "I don't want to know what she did to lead you to that conclusion, Matthew. I think it is better that way. At least for now.

I nodded, grateful that no further explanation was required at the moment before I guided her head back onto my chest.

We lay with our arms wrapped around each other in silence for a long while, the only sound in the room emanating from the crackling fire in the grate and wind that had picked up outside.

Though I was relieved that I no longer needed to address Lilian's feelings for me, I felt compelled to clear the air as to why I never sought the attention of any woman while I lived in London.

Toward that end, I shared, "My darling, I learned early on that I was married to someone as I discovered the wedding band that you had insisted I wear, though I thought it a passing fad. I thank God now that you did, as it was the first bit of information that I was privy to regarding the life I led before waking in Whitechapel."

Mary reached for my hand and took hold of my wedding band .Twisting it around a few times, she said, "I'm glad that I insisted, too."

Placing my hand over hers, I continued, "You see, I had no clue as to who that someone was, but I knew that the woman I loved was out there…somewhere. Perhaps that is why I never looked upon any woman as anything more than a good friend. You see, my darling, you may have left my head, but you never did my heart."

I couldn't see Mary smiling but I could feel it.

She raised her head briefly and kissed my chest, "I'm glad that was the case, Matthew. Rest assured, you never left mine either.. although in my case, recalling the details of our life together broke it."

I braced myself as it became clear Mary was going to address the "rough time" Dr. Clarkson had told me she had.

"I fought depression every waking moment and lost my battle quite frequently, I'm ashamed to say. In fact, there were times when your loss was so unbearable that I could not manage to get out of bed. The worst of it was that I was unable to be the wonderful mother you were so certain I would be to our son. It pains me to admit that to you, but it is the truth and I won't sugar coat it... I had nothing to give George, you see. A broken heart is incapable of giving love... and mine was completely shattered," she said in a strangled voice."

I remained silent until I was certain she was done speaking for the moment, and then countered, "You are being too hard on yourself, Mary. Losing me the way you did on the day our child was born had to knock the stuffing out of you."

Mary sighed, "I'm not quite sure which of our situations was worse, Matthew."

I followed suit, letting out a long, deep breath before kissing the top of her head, both of us clearly too tired to debate who drew the short straw as fate would have it.

"It has been a long day, Mary; a glorious but long day. I suggest we both get some sleep and resume this conversation tomorrow," I said.

Mary yawned before she replied that she thought that was a "smashing idea". Then she asked if I would mind if she remained situated in her current position.

Doing my best but not succeeding in stifling my own yawn, I managed, "I.. was... hoping... you would."

We wished each other a good night then; and as my eyes closed, I reveled in the knowledge that all the pieces of the puzzle were back in their proper place, as was I.

..

On the morning of the first day of 1923, I woke with my wife in my arms. The realization that she was not a figment of my imagination and that we were lying in our bed together at Downton made my heart sing.

Though I remained as still as possible not to wake her, Mary began to stir; and a few moments later she raised her head, pushed back the long, dark locks that had fallen onto her face and blinked a few times.

Her eyes widened as she looked into mine and she smiled, "I'm starving,"

"Is that all you have to say?" I teased.

Mary feigned deep concentration and then offered, "I'm sorry, darling. Good morning, Matthew. I'm starving."

I laughed so loudly that I was sure Robert and Cora could hear me down the hall (if they hadn't gone down to breakfast yet) before I replied that I, too, was famished.

Mary rang for Anna, who arrived with a broad smile planted on her face, a bit of innuendo regarding our getting a good night's sleep, and tea. Having thoroughly enjoyed both, I left my wife to her own devices and made my way to my dressing room to deal with Mr. Molesley.

I found the valet sitting with his head resting in his hands, a forlorn expression on his face and his foot tapping to a silent beat, all three an indication that he had been waiting for me for some time. He jumped to attention as soon as he saw me and smiled broadly, wishing me a good morning and making small pleasantries while he laid out articles of clothing for me to choose from.

As he went through the motions of getting me dressed, the servant hummed a happy tune while I did my best to suppress a frown that was forming on my face. I had become used to dressing myself while I lived in London and found it difficult to return to doing so with assistance.

Remembering what my father-in-law had told me when I first came to Downton with regard to my reluctance to use a valet, I managed to grin and bear Molelsley's ministrations, knowing how important his position was to him. Then, wishing him a good day, I made my way back to Mary, hoping she was ready to go down to breakfast.

…

The dining room was full when we arrived and Mary and I were welcomed warmly by both family and friends as we took our places at the table. Glancing around the room, I noticed the only two missing from last night's gathering were Mother and Violet, who I was advised by Robert would arrive later that afternoon.

I was happy to learn next that he had persuaded our guests from London to spend the day with us. Toward that end, Dr. Head had already called the London Hospital to arrange for coverage for him and Lilian and a plan had been put in place whereby Tom would give them a tour of the estate.

Unfortunately, Joseph would not be able to join in the group tour as he was headed off to Graspeys in an official capacity. He would catch up with Tom and the others in the Village to have luncheon once his interviews at the funeral home were complete.

There was no doubt in my mind that the investigator from Scotland Yard would get to the bottom of why my family was led to believe the ashes they buried were mine and the deception dealt with accordingly.

As I took my place at the table, I found Dr. Head in deep conversation with my mother-in-law regarding the difference between amnesia due to injury as opposed to it being rooted in a traumatic event. Cora's eyes were transfixed on him as were Edith's who sat across from the physician.

I wondered if my sister-in-law's avid interest was a precursor to her writing a piece on the topic at hand. It would make sense, I conceded, that the future Earl of Grantham returning from the dead would make headlines in more than one publication.

To my right, I heard Mary and Tom talking about the price of bacon rising and my heart swelled with pride over their accomplishments. Then he turned to me, asking whether I would be joining the excursion after breakfast.

"I think you will be pleasantly surprised by the changes Mary and I have made, Matthew," he smiled.

I told Tom that no doubt I would be very pleased, but begged off as I had made plans to go into Ripon that morning to have something very special to me engraved. I winked then at Ruth Head and she flashed me a smile, knowing I was referring to the journal she had given me the first Christmas I spent with her and Dr. Head at their home in Eaton Square.

As I relished the bacon (that I learned originated with hogs now being farmed at Downton) and the sight of the Van Dyke hanging over my father-in-law's head, I said a silent prayer of thanks for the gift that I had been given - the return of the life I loved and those who made it so.

...

Mary and I decided to bring George with us to Ripon; and once we reached our destination, our little chap made quite an impression on the locals. Many in the Market Square stopped us and remarked how handsome he was. Seemingly knowing he was being praised, George would break into a toothy grin each time he received a compliment. The sight made Mary and I beam with pride, even as we chuckled at his antics.

A few minutes after we entered Larkfield Engravers, the toddler pulled free of his Mama's hand and dashed off as if he had wheels, scattering about the establishment until he slipped and fell. George let out a wail that drew everyone's attention to him, especially Mary's. Quickly, she picked up our little tyke and placed him on one of the long, polished counters to examine him.

It took but a few seconds for her to ascertain that he was not seriously hurt and she nodded in my direction before tending to his bruised knee. Taking in the scene from across the room, my heart swelled as I watched Mary wipe our son's tiny hands with her handkerchief and then plant a kiss on his knee. Then she crouched down until they were eye level, blotted his tears from his face and spoke softly to him.

"You must be careful, darling. Mama would be very, very sad if you hurt yourself," she said, looking deeply into his adoring eyes.

At that, George nodded. Then he surprised everyone in close proximity by bringing his hand to his mouth and blowing his mother a kiss.

A woman being served at an adjacent counter exclaimed, "Oh, how lovely," while her younger companion, who by the looks of her was a close relation, shared her sentiment.

I couldn't agree with them more. Seeing Mary interact with our son has both warmed my heart and confirmed I had been right in assuming she would be a wonderful mother. In the short time I have spent with George, he has made it abundantly clear that he adores his Mama as much as his Papa does.

Upon our return to Downton, Mary handed George over to his Nanny to set him down for his nap while I headed off to the Library. I found Tom with Sybbie in his arms there searching for a particular children's book. Joining in the hunt, we both were skimming the shelves when Robert joined us with the news that Detective Cosgrove was in the Courtyard, filling in two local constabularies with the details of what had transpired at Graspeys. Our head's cocked and eyebrows raised, a silence fell over the room that was only broken by Sybbie's squeal when her grandfather handed her the book we had been searching for.

The rest of the day passed by quickly and happily as my two families gathered once more in the drawing room and got to know one another better. Tom and Joseph nearly had to be pried apart when Lilian asked me to remind her fiancé that they had a long trip ahead of them. Then sadly, the time came for the London branch to return home.

The entire family along with Mr. Carson & Mrs. Hughes gathered outside to give our guests a proper send off. Smiling broadly, Robert and Cora thanked them all once more for the aid they rendered me while I suffered amnesia, and especially for bringing me back to them.

Mary and I stood side at the end of the line, bidding each our guests a safe trip home. Joseph stood before us the first with the news that criminal charges had been filed against the proprietor of Graspeys. Furthermore, an investigation was under way to determine who else at the funeral home was complicit in the crime that was committed.

The detective will be intricately involved in the case, which is beneficial to me on more than one level. There is no doubt in my mind that he will be thorough in his investigation, and I will have the added benefit of his company as his duties will bring him to Downton often in the time it takes for him to reach his findings.

Mary and I both thanked him for all he had done and was continuing to do on my behalf. His self-deprecating humor in tact, he joked that he if my learning my identity had depended on him, my son would be enrolled at Oxford by the time he managed it. He added with a smile that he was grateful for any small part he played in reuniting me with my lovely wife and the rest of my family before grasping my hand in his.

"We will not become strangers to one another, Matthew, he insisted. I am going to need a best man soon and who better than you, since you brought Lilian and me together."

I told him that I would be honored before releasing his hand and him to Mary. She kissed his cheek and wished him a safe trip home, adding that she hoped we would see him as well as Lilian again soon.

My erstwhile nurse was next in line and seeing her approach, Mary patted my arm set off to join her before she reached us. The two conversed amiably for a couple of minutes, their hands clasped together. The sight brought a smile to my face and I beamed in their direction as Mary dropped Liian's hands and made her way to Ruth Head.

A moment later Lilian and I stood alone, and I found myself searching for a way to say farewell to the woman who had brought me back from the brink both physically and mentally.

Unable to come up with anything I thought would do, I shrugged my shoulders in defeat and said, "I cannot find the words to thank you enough for all you have done for me or convey how fervently I wish you happiness."

Lilian smiled brightly, "You just have, Matthew," and then kissed my cheek.

Taking her hands between mine, I smiled, "Joseph is a lucky man."

Lilian directed her gaze to Mary and replied, "As are you. I am so happy that I was able to meet Mary as I know I am leaving you in both loving and capable hands."

Then she let go of my mine and headed off to the car and her future with Joseph Cosgrove.

Dr. Head approached me next, after bidding Mary farewell. As I grasped hold of his hand, I searched once more for words that would convey the depth of my gratitude. Though they all seemed lacking, I settled on telling him that beside Mary and George, there was no other who had made such a propitious and profound impact on my life

"As you have mine, Matthew," he replied. Then he smiled, "I am very happy that our paths have crossed...and rest assured, I will do my utmost to ensure they continue to do so."

Last but not lease was Mrs. Head, who stood before me with a huge grin on her face. She asked me if I had given Mary the journal that I had kept since I was Patient #9 under her husband's care. I conveyed that I had that very morning and Mary was thrilled to receive it, which made her grin widen.

"Now you can begin your new journal, properly, Matthew, she said beaming." My hope is that it will be filled with nothing but happy remembrances."

And then they were gone.

It was difficult to watch my adopted family drive away in Dr. Head's car, but I was comforted by the knowledge that this chapter in my life would never be fully closed. Mrs. Head promised that they would take Robert and Cora's invitation to heart and visit Downton often. We Crawleys, in turn, have vowed that we will see them all soon in Eaton Square as Rose will be coming out this Season.

The temperature dropping, Mary and I shifted our feet back and forth on the gravel in an effort to keep our blood flowing, waiving until the black sedan that brought me home turned onto the main road leading out of Downton. Once it was out of sight, we raced back into the house and the warmth it provided.

Always able to read me, my darling wife took quick notice that a gloom had cast over me and proposed, "I think George should be up from his nap by now. How would you like to join Tom in the Nursery and share in his narration of "Dr. Doolittle?"

"I would love to, darling," I replied happily. "Would you like to join us?"

Mary smiled, "I'd love to some other time, but right now I have some reading of my own to do "

I followed suit, knowing she was referring to my journal; then kissed her quickly before taking the steps to the Gallery.

...

Tom and I took turns reading chapters of "Dr. Doolittle" to the children, who by the sound of their giggling were highly amused by it. Sybbie's laugh reminded me of her mother's; and seeing the bittersweet expression on Tom's face, I know it did him, as well.

I finished out the narration, taking pride in the fact that my audience had hung on my every word. Then I made my apologies to Tom as I had to leave, having promised Mother a visit at Crawley House. Patting George on the head, I told him that I'd be back to tuck him into bed later; something I will relish until he is old enough to let me know I don't need to any longer. Then I left him in his uncle's capable hands.

With snow falling outside, Mother and I two spent a good hour catching each other up on what our lives had been without each other in them. I had wondered how she managed after losing her only child, imagining it must have knocked the stuffing out of her. Even knowing the pain is behind her now, it still broke my heart to hear how she suffered. Yet by the time the driver had brought around the car to take us back to Downton for dinner, we both were smiling from ear to ear, and I found myself grateful for what will no doubt count as one of my most cherished days when I look back at it.

As I close out this long entry, I look forward to all the future memories in the making that will fill the pages of the story of my life. My fervent hope is that they all include Mary, whom I can say with certainty I will love until the last breath leaves my body. Now I can return to her with an unfettered mind as my mission here has been accomplished.

...

AN: This was truly a long labor of love and I hope you will review. Please read on as the last chapter will bring you up to speed on many beloved character's lives in the future

The epilogue will bring you to Downton in 1940, the night before George goes off to war.

As in my previous chapters, all Downton Abbey characters belong to Julian Fellowes. The rest belong to history and my own imagination.


	14. Epilogue - September 18th, 1941

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in 1940 as George Crawley turns 19 year's old. Many from Downton of yesteryear return to celebrate his birthday and give him their good wishes the night before he heads off to war.

September 18th, 1940

If not for Mary's request, I would be lying beside her at this very moment relishing her company and the comfort of our bed instead of hunched over this desk with pen in hand.

"You must find it, Matthew," she pleaded as we made our way out of the dining room. "I want to give it to George for luck when he leaves in the morning."

She did not have to elaborate on what "it" was.

Though she spoke softly, there was no mistaking the urgency in the tone of her voice. I looked squarely into the brown eyes that I still find myself lost in after two decades of marriage and promised Mary that I would deliver "it" to her before the day was out. At that, she looped her arm through mine and smiled. I was pleased to see that this smile was genuine, unlike so many that had been manufactured for my and George's benefit since he enlisted in the RAF.

"I knew I could count on you," she said as we set off to join our guests in the Saloon.

Returning her smile, I covered her hand with mine and replied, "Always, my darling…Always."

The tiny stuffed dog was exactly where I thought it would be inside an old chest that I had brought with me from Manchester. Ultimately, it became the receptacle for a variety of items I have collected over the years that I could not part with. One is this very journal. When I came upon it tonight lying next to the miniature clay horse that George had sculpted for me for my 41st birthday, I felt compelled to pick it up.

As I held the small diary in my hand, I thought of Ruth Head, my neurologist's wife, who so graciously welcomed me into her home when I was discharged from the London Hospital. Running my hand over my name on the journal cover, I remembered how optimistic she was that Christmas in 1921 that one day it would be there.

...

Mary and I separated as we entered the room in order to divide our attention between the guests who were scattered about. In no time, the party was in full swing, the sound of merriment floating up to the Gallery testament that a good time was being had by all.

The furniture had been strategically situated earlier in the day to allow for dancing and the lovely waltz playing on the gramophone brought many guests to their feet. Mary and I have shared in many of the hosting duties since Robert and Cora entered into their 70's, but we deferred the first dance of the evening to the Earl and Countess of Grantham.

All eyes were on the still happily married couple as they glided around the room, executing the dance beautifully. Shortly, my in-laws were joined by Tom and his wife Catherine. And before long, the floor was filled with couples relishing a much needed respite from the War.

Taking in the smiling faces before me, I was glad that Mary and I had not canceled the party due to the situation in London. We made our decision based on Robert's reasoning that we would be handing the Germans a victory if we did since their intent is to strip us of any normalcy in our lives. And that we must fight at every turn.

The scene before my eyes brought back many happy memories of Downton of yesteryear. It warmed my heart to see the dance floor filled with friends and family who have been a part of my and Mary's story, some for three decades. The occasion even prompted an appearance by some of the servants who left our employ many years ago. We hear news of them often from Mr. Molelsey, whose position at Downton has run the gamut from valet to footman and now tutor. As such, he has accumulated a plethora of knowledge about Downton's employees, past and present which he is more than willing to share.

...

Mr. Carson and his wife arrived at our front door precisely one hour after dinner ended. I freely admit that addressing our former head housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, as Mrs. Carson did not come easy. Mary and I, as well the rest of the household, could not believe our ears when the two announced that they were engaged.

Learning of the news, my father-in-law nearly choked on the tea he had been drinking and launched into a prolonged coughing fit. Cora had rolled her eyes at him before making her way to Mrs. Hughes to offer her congratulations while Mr. Carson stood over the Earl with a bleak expression on his face. Each time Mary and I would hear him ask, "Sir, are you quite all right?" we would burst into laughter. Our amusement prompted the red-faced Earl to glare at us both while pointing to the door, clearly not finding any humor in the situation.

Tonight as my eyes searched the room to locate my wife, I felt Tom poke me with his elbow to get my attention. When I looked his way, he directed me with a nod of his head to the spot where Robert was offering the former Head Butler a glass of champagne. We two stood transfixed as Carson took the glass of sparkling wine from his hand, bowed his head and said, "Thank you, your Lordship." Then both men flinched and looked about the room as though it were foreign to them.

Tom hit me on the back and said, "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

It was abundantly clear that Mr. Carson would have been more at ease serving Lord Grantham's guests than being one. In fact, he would have likely remained home in the cottage that he and his wife have shared these past 15 years were it not for the fact that he loves George nearly as much as he does Mary. I could see that love plainly n his eyes along with pride when Carson shook the "young master's" hand.

I overheard Elsie Carson telling George that she could not believe he was now 19 year's old as it seemed like yesterday he was tugging on her skirt and asking if Mrs. Patmore were baking his favorite cookies that day. Then, I saw her hand George a box wrapped in silver foil. He made quick work of the wrapping, revealing a lovely pewter picture frame. A year ago I would have had no doubt that a photograph of Mary, Victoria and I would rest inside that frame, but now I wonder if we will be supplanted by another.

...

Anna and John Bates also made an appearance, which delighted Mary to no end as she has missed her Lady's maid and friend since she left Downton. The couple joined the celebration late and quickly apologized that they would not be able to stay long as they had a new hire manning the front desk of their small hotel. Robert beamed when he saw Mary and me chatting with the two and quickly joined us.

As my father-in-law stood next to his erstwhile valet, I could not help but notice Bates' hair was now as white as his. I took notice, too, that he relies much more heavily on his cane than he did when employed at Downton. The age difference between John and Anna is considerable and glaring when you see them standing side by side, but so is their commitment to one another. Then if not for the fact that she is much younger than her husband, they would not have had the joy of welcoming twin sons into the world the day before John Bates' 57th birthday.

Anna teases that she timed the births to coincide with her husband's special day as she knew it was the best gift she could give him. It is clear to me that happy day along with many others may not have taken place but for the efforts of my good friend from London, Joseph Cosgrove. The Scotland Yard detective was pivotal in proving the Bates innocent in the murder of Mr. Green, the man who had raped Anna nearly two decades ago. They as well as the Crawley family will be forever grateful for his hard work on our behalf and hold him in our highest esteem.

...

I know that Mrs. Carson had once advised Daisy to "Go as far in life as God and luck allow," and she has done just that as at present she is the owner of a thriving farm. No doubt Sara Bunting, who was once the maid's tutor, would be proud. Tom's friend with liberal views clearly did much more than aggravate Robert's ulcer during the time she spent at Downton. The teacher set Daisy on the right track, one she has never veered from.

When the maid turned cook arrived at Downton early this morning with George's favorite cake in her hands, Mary and I were both surprised and touched. Surprised that she would remember George's birthday and touched that the ingredients needed to bake it had to have taken a good chunk out of her food rations.

I remember how she wept when she learned she was the sole beneficiary of Mr. Mason's farm. "He told me I was the only person left on earth that was special to him," she said between sobs. Mrs. Patmore (God rest her soul) had nudged her assistant on more than one occasion to go to visit her father-in-law. When Daisy finally did, her relationship with him blossomed into one that would have made William very happy.

Though agriculture suffered badly during the Great Depression, Mason's farm kept afloat thanks to the contract Daisy secured with Tom's able assistance with the Bardney Canning Factory. The company began its operation by canning peas in 1933 and has expanded their product line ever since. Over the years, the ownership has changed hands but their contract with Mason's Farm has always been renewed. I have no doubt that is because each new owner has found Daisy Kent to be knowledgeable and honest in all her dealings.

Daisy Kent shared with Tom recently that the owner of the cannery prefers discussing business with her rather than her husband, although she can tell that the women who work at the factory are disappointed when she turns up instead of him, which came as no surprise to my brother-in-law or me.

...

Jimmy Kent, the footman who filled the gap when William had passed on, like Daisy, benefited from an inheritance. Rumor has it that Lady Anstruther felt responsible for Jimmy getting sacked from Downton and included the footman in her will to assuage her guilt. When the "merry widow" died from complications of pneumonia, Jimmy was notified that she had left him a tidy sum. He was interested in getting a return on that money when he and Alfred Nugent had a chance meeting in London and he learned of Daisy's good fortune.

The young widow was quite surprised when Jimmy showed up at Mason's Farm with a pocketful of cash and a desire to buy into Mason's. Whatever his motive was at the time of his arrival, Jimmy and Daisy were married six month's later. Thomas Barrow was enlisted as his best man and Alfred, a groomsman. Mrs. Patmore, Downton's head cook, served as Daisy's matron of honor, and Mr. Carson walked her down the aisle.

Jimmy's business investment has paid off nicely as has his personal collaboration with Daisy, the latter producing two lovely daughters with strawberry colored hair and freckles.

...

I wish that Alfred Nugent's story had such a happy ending. All who heard the news were shocked and saddened to learn that Alfred, yet another footman who had been employed at Downton, was among the 436 civilians killed in London on September 7th in the first Luftwaffe attack on the population at large.

Mary and I represented the family in attending the former footman's funeral service in Crewe. When we arrived, we spotted a clearly shaken Miss O'Brien consoling Alfred's mother. The woman who had served as lady's maid to my mother-in-law was surprised that we had come and offered us her sincere thanks.

When the service ended and we rose to leave, she requested a moment of our time and inquired after her Ladyship. Mary shared that her mother had been well and left it at that.

There is no doubt in my mind that she would have had more to say to Miss O'Brien if not for the present circumstances. Mary never forgave the maid's betrayal of her mother in quitting her mother's employ in favor of Lady Flintshire, her father's cousin.

As we drove home from the service, Mary and I reminisced about the day she had persuaded Mr. Carson to hire James Kent, the more handsome of the candidates for footman to be added to the staff, as Alfred resembled "a puppy rescued from a puddle."

The memory was bittersweet as she echoed Mr. Carson's parting words that day in the deepest voice she could muster, "But Alfred is very good, you know. He's very willing… even if he is Miss O'Brien's nephew."

My mother-in-law's replacement for Miss O'Brien has proved more loyal and a welcome addition to the household, especially for Mr. Molelsey. It is plain for all to see that he and Miss Baxter have cared deeply for each other for many years, but they never have joined the ranks of the servants who have tied the knot.

Mary learned recently from Thomas that Miss Baxter was never able to secure a divorce from her first husband and that is the reason she and Mr. Molesley remain unattached. We were both surprised to hear Miss Baxter was married, but Cora took the news in stride. Apparently, this is not the first secret that she has uncovered with regard to her lady's maid.

Thomas, too, has been acting very secretively as of late. Though, I hope that he continues whatever he has been up to as it has changed his disposition for the better. Molesley shared with Robert and me that Thomas has become friends with the owner of a bicycle shop in Thirsk and visits him regularly. He added there has been speculation among the servants as to whether those visits are the reason for the Head Butler's improved mood. Robert raised his eyebrows and smiled in my direction before cautioning Mr. Molelsey not to spread idle gossip.

...

The younger generation who had gathered to honor George was ably represented by a handful of chaps who shared his first year at Oxford with him as well as some of his mates from Eton who chose Cambridge instead. George remarked how odd it felt at Oxford when he found himself opposing a former teammate from Eton in a cricket match or race. All the young men present were the same age except for one, a Cambridge student who took leave from the university in his final year to join the Army.

I heard Mary gasp as if she had seen a ghost when she spotted the soldier being ushered into the Great Hall and it was plain to see why. It was only when the young man drew closer to us that Mary and I could see the subtle differences between Major Bryant and his son. We chatted briefly with Charles Bryant, II before George and Sybbie came to greet him and guide him into the Saloon.

Mother and Mrs. Hughes did not see eye to eye when it came to Ethel Parks' decision to give up her illegitimate son to his grandparents. In the end, the servant did relinquish Charles to the Bryants. There was no doubt that she did so in order to give him a better life than she could provide. Mrs. Bryant allowed Ethel a glimpse of her son now and then under the pretext that she was a former cook in their household, and she and Mr. Bryant honored Ethel's request that Charles never be told she was his mother.

I cannot help but think how unfair it is that Ethel Parks, alone, bore the consequence of her illicit union with Major Bryant, even having to prostitute herself in order to feed their child. Charles Bryant died in battle for king and country and I commend him for his service. Yet, the fact remains that he seduced a young woman far below his station in life and left her to fend for herself when he learned she was pregnant. Then he refused to acknowledge, much less support, his own child. As I see it, Ethel Parks is the hero of the two.

Charles Bryant, II became friends with George at Eaton when they were on the same crew in the Rowing Club. The two lost touch after Charles graduated but their friendship was renewed coincidentally through Sybbie. She met him at Oxford when he helped her recover some notes she had dropped that were being blown about by the wind and her connection to George came to light soon thereafter. I suspect that his presence tonight, however, had less to do with my son than his beautiful cousin as the young man spent more time with Sybbie than he did his Eaton mate.

I know that my mother would have been as impressed with Major Bryant and Ethel's son as Mary and I were had she been able to attend the party tonight. Unfortunately she could not come as she sprained her ankle yesterday and Richard still does not want her to put any weight on it.

The good doctor has proven to be a wonderful husband and I feel certain that Mother has no regrets that she broke her engagement to Lord Merton. Mary's Godfather is a fine man but his sons remain boorish snobs who would never have accepted Mother as Lord Merton's wife and made both his life and hers miserable had they married.

...

Leaving Sybbie and the young soldier to enjoy each others' company, I searched for George and found him sifting through the stack of records by the gramophone with Alison Cosgrove, Lilian and Joseph's daughter. I took a few steps toward them but my son's expression stopped me dead in my tracks. His eyes were fixed on the lovely young woman's face as though he were memorizing every detail of it.

It was not surprising to me to find that George found the Cosgrove's only child attractive as I doubt any young man wouldn't. She is every bit as lovely as her mother, having inherited her hazel gray eyes and ivory complexion, which is even more striking when combined with her father's dark hair and stature.

Once Alsion looked up from the record in her hands, my son averted his eyes immediately. I could not help but smile as I remembered how many times I had managed to stay one step ahead of Mary in this manner. At least, I think I did. Looking beyond him and Alison, I found Mary standing about five feet away, her eyes fixed on our son and the object of his affection. She, no doubt, had just witnessed the same scene that I had as she shared my smile.

George put the record that Alison had chosen on the gramophone, then took her hand and led her into the center of the room to dance. As the first verse of Vera Lynn's rendition of "We'll Meet Again" reached my ears, it became clear why she had picked this particular song for George to play.

"We'll meet again...Don't know where, don't know when...But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day...Keep smiling through...Just like you always do...Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds, far away..."

The song reminded of the day Mary came to see me off at the Downton Station as I headed back to war. I remembered how heart broken I was when I caught a glimpse of her on the platform as the train pulled away, knowing I might never see her again. The memory drove me to be near her and I left George and Alison to their dance and set off to fulfill my mission.

Mary has always stood out in a crowd and tonight was no different. She looked stunning in the sleeveless, wine colored gown and bolero jacket that showcased her slender figure. No one who was not a close intimate of hers would guess she is nearing 50 year's of age. The only hint that she is old enough to be the mother of a 19 year-old are the few strands of grey that intertwine with her lovely chestnut locks.

As my beautiful wife honored me with our first dance tonight, she commanded the attention of many of the gentlemen in the room, most notably from Lord Gillingham, who followed her every step. That is, until he realized that I was watching him; whereby he returned his gaze immediately to his wife, Mabel.

At that exact moment, Mary drew my eyes back to her as she asked, "Have I told you lately how happy you make me?"

I smiled and replied, "I will remind you of that when you berate me in the middle of the night for stealing your bed covers."

"I think you had better," she retorted. "There is nothing worse than waking in the middle of the night chilled to the bone due to your thievery."

Mary flashed me a cheeky smile but it faded quickly and her mood turned dark. I searched her eyes and found that whatever she was pondering was causing her great distress.

"No, that is not true, Matthew," she said flatly, all levity gone from her voice. "There have been moments much worse than my sleep being disrupted by the cold and finding you wrapped in my blanket."

I wanted to stop dancing and lead her to a place where we could speak privately, but knew that if we walked off before the music ended, we would draw attention to ourselves.

"I have woken in middle of the night and reached for you but found you were not there. After a second or two, I would remember that you would never be there again, and then I would feel as though my heart were being ripped out of my chest."

There were many nights during the first few months after I returned to Downton that I would hear Mary call out my name or feel her reach across the bed to be certain she was not alone. Once she found purchase, she would apologize profusely for waking me. I would tell her there was no need to, and we would hold each other close the rest of the night.

More often than not, Mary's fear and my desire to give her comfort would lead to passion, and we would make love with the wild abandonment of those who realize there was no guarantee that this was not the last time.

Mary was silent for a few moments in deep thought. Then she said, "And I have woken in the middle of the night knowing that George was not asleep in his bed down the hall or at the university, but instead off at some training camp learning how to shoot Nazis out of the sky."

I wanted more than anything to take her in my arms at that very moment, but since that was not possible, I focused my attention on the only part of our bodies that touched and began circling my thumb over the top of her hand.

"I'm sorry, darling," she said softly. "I'm fine."

I nodded and smiled at Mary even though it was clear she was not.

...

Restless nights have plagued me, too, since I learned that George enlisted in the RAF. I often lie awake contemplating whether or not this war could have been avoided.

Winston Churchill said," Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it." There are many who believe his words ring true now.

In 1920 when the final tally of our losses in World War I was made public, we learned that close to one million who served in the Army were either killed in battle or lost to disease, 40,000 perished in the Royal Navy and RAF and two million returned home injured. Paraplegics and amputees were a common sight in 1919 as were men wearing tin masks to cover faces so badly disfigured that they would frighten children.

We also learned how war can cripple a nation's economy. It cost over £3 billion to keep the war machine running from 1914 to 1918, and taxes and war bonds alone did not cover the expense. We had no choice but to borrow to fill the gap and were heavily indebted to America by the end of the war.

No, I do not see this conflict rooted in our failure to learn from history as the consequences of what now is labeled World War I led to our firm resolve that it be our last. The League of Nations was formed specifically to ensure countries would resolve their problems peacefully going forward. Yet no matter our good intentions, I can see now that the stage was set for this conflict even as the Treaty of Versailles was being signed.

I cannot help but play devil's advocate and ask myself if Britain were the defeated nation, would we have agreed to our Army being cut to 100,000, the Navy to 36 ships, and our Air Force banned? Would we have considered £6.6 billion in war reparations fair? Would we not have balked at losing 13 per cent of our land and 12 per cent of our people? If we had learned that those who won the Great War had wanted to inflict further punishment upon us and were only denied doing so by majority rule, would we not have felt anger, bitterness, and resentment toward our conqueror.

I saw with my own eyes the devastation that the Germans caused and agree that their consequences should have been severe. Yet, if I put aside my emotions and rely solely on logic, I cannot help but acknowledge the part the treaty played in the Nazi party coming into power.

When the terms of the treaty became public, the German populace was outraged that it had been signed, calling those who did so the "November Criminals." It could be that the very instrument put in place to prevent another war led to one as it became the stepping stone for Hitler to win the hearts and minds of the German people.

...

Mary managed a weak smile as she took my arm and guided me to the red sofa that Cora and Robert were sharing with Tom and his wife, Catherine. If memory serves me, this particular chair has been reupholstered at least twice because my father-in-law has refused to replace it. His reluctance to part with any object associated with the past has been maddening at times. Tonight, however, I am glad he did not part with this one as it is familiar when so much else is not.

If memory serves me correctly, some year's ago, Mr. Carson discovered George, who had a knack of escaping his Nanny's watchful eye, making use of this sofa as a springboard to propel himself into the air. Fortunately his daring solo flight didn't result in any serious injury as the head butler caught him before gravity took over.

From our position on the sofa, I was glad to see that Tony and Mabel were leaving early as I was hard-pressed not to privately call Lord Gillingham out on his behavior. If it weren't for the fact that his daughter Gertrude is such good friends with Victoria, I would have been inclined to permanently remove his name from our guest list. But taking my daughter's feelings into consideration, I had no choice but to join Mary in seeing them off.

As we made our way toward the Foyles, I noticed that Evelyn Napier was watching Mary closely, too, but with a much different look in his eyes than Tony Foyle's. The Viscount of Branksome relinquished the torch he carried for my Mary a long time ago, and his eyes were filled with nothing but admiration for his old friend and sister-in-law.

..

It seems Evelyn was destined to marry one of the Crawley girls as he and Edith will be celebrating their 14th wedding anniversary this year. Many in the family were surprised that he had chosen her to become his wife because he had shown little interest in Edith into the mid 1920s. In retrospect, I think that was partially due to his loyalty to my wife.

I learned early on in my relationship with Mary that Evelyn was aware that Edith wrote the letter to the Turkish Ambassador which fueled the rumors surrounding Mr. Pamuk's death. And I would imagine that Edith's betrayal of her sister along with her general disposition at that time, greatly influenced Evelyn's negative opinion of her.

It is my belief that that opinion held until he returned to Downton after spending a lengthy period abroad. Once back, he found Edith a changed woman, stronger and more confident in herself. And it no doubt eased his mind to find that by then the ice between Edith and Mary had thawed.

I was not present when the incident took place that forever changed Mary's relationship with her sister, but have heard the story enough times to know it by heart. During a family picnic at the lake, George and Sybbie were taking turns tossing a ball to Horus. The Labrador was giving them a merry chase before he dropped the ball back at their feet to start the game anew. The children's Nanny was in close range of her charges while Mary, eight month's pregnant with Victoria, looked on from the picnic site with Mother about 10 feet away.

Edith was picking wildflowers with Marigold nearby when a quick series of events turned the family outing into a nightmare. Sybbie tripped and fell while chasing Horus which prompted Nanny to pick her off the ground and examine her for any injury. While she was tending to Sybbie, George continued chasing Horus closer and closer to the lake. This time, when the little chap threw the ball, it rolled into the water and the dog jumped in to retrieve it. George was unable to stop his forward momentum and toppled into the lake after him.

Mary watched the horrific scene unfold and was helpless to stop it. She rose as quickly as she could in her condition and ran toward the lake as did Mother, but Edith was already there. She, too, was watching the children, and as soon as she saw George heading for the lake, she sent Marigold to Nanny in order to rescue him.

I shudder to think of what could have happened to George if his aunt had not dived into the water seconds after he did. Mary said that it felt as though time had stood still until she saw Edith emerge with George in her arms. He was sobbing and coughing, clearly shaken by what had taken place. But miraculously he had not swallowed a great deal of water.

Mother called Richard as soon as she returned to the house and he came immediately to examine George. Fortunately, he found no signs of drowning present and assured us our son was fine. Both I and Mary let out a collective sigh of relief. Then she whispered to me that she was glad Isobel had married Dr. Clarkson instead of her Godfather, as Lord Merton would have been too busy quoting what he read about drowning to be of any real help.

My sister-in-law came to George's room after changing into dry clothes and having comforted Marigold and Sybbie (who were quite worried about their cousin.) Mary left my side as soon as she saw her and pulled her into what I would imagine was only the second embrace in both their lives. When they broke apart, I joined Mary in thanking Edith. By then, George's trembling had begun to subside and he shouted, "Thank you, Andith." And that moniker has been his special name for my sister-in-law ever since.

I imagine that the change in the way Mary and Edith interacted in public allowed Evelyn to entertain the possibility of a relationship with Edith, even if only one of friendship. In 1926, he was one of the most influential and admired MPs and Edith the head of a thriving publishing company. They both were successful in their respective positions, affluent and listed in Burkes.

As if these commonalities were not sufficient, Edith and Evelyn shared the misfortune of failed romances and were eager for a successful relationship. Violet suggested that Edith not let any grass grow under Evelyn Napier's feet after he proposed to her. But her advice proved unnecessary as Evelyn insisted on a short engagement and he and Edith tied the knot three months after he proposed.

...

It still feels impossible at times that Cousin Violet is no longer with us as she seemed larger than life. The Dowager Countess was fierce, especially when it came to protecting those she loved. On one side of the coin, she was opinionated, obstinate, sarcastic and manipulative; while on the other, intelligent, witty, kind, and generous.

During her long life, Violet Crawley gave freely of her advice, her time, and her love. If not for her intervention, I doubt that Robert and Cora's marriage would have survived Sybil's death. Mr. Molesley would have been conscripted into service during World War I, his life put in grave peril if not for her informing Dr. Clarkson that he had a problem with his lungs. Had she not petitioned Richard on his behalf, William would have died in a hospital in Leeds surrounded by strangers instead of at Downton with his father and wife at his bedside. In fact, the former footman would not have had a wife at all if not for her as Mr. Travis had balked at performing the ceremony and only relented when the Dowager Countess reminded him of was who buttering his bread.

Violet was the voice of reason as well as an ally to me when I discovered that Downton was being mismanaged and sought her guidance. I can hear her now telling me in no uncertain terms that I must do what was best for Downton though many noses would "be out of joint."

Family always held the trump card for the Dowager. As far back as when she discovered Mary's involvement with Pamuk, she did not judge her. Instead, she looked for a way to shield her eldest granddaughter from the pain of scandal. The same held true when she learned that Marigold was Edith's child. Violet accepted that her loved ones behaved badly at times. A pragmatist, she accepted what could not be changed and did what was possible to minimize the fallout.

Most of all, I will be forever grateful for the role she played in my marrying Mary. When Violet came to my room to tell me that Mary was still in love with me, I found I could no longer deny my feelings for her. I had convinced myself while convalescing at Downton that she took charge of my care because she pitied me. But once I learned Mary felt more that sorrow for my predicament, my engagement to Lavinia rested on shaky ground. It crumbled beneath my feet the night before my wedding as I divulged my true feelings to Mary and we kissed. I will always regret that Lavinia was witness to that moment. But never that kiss.

In her unorthodox visit to my bedroom, Violet advised me, "You will live 40 or 50 years with one of these women. Make sure you choose the right one." I am very glad that she lived to see that I did.

On May 31st, 1934, the woman who I often compared to a force of nature quietly passed away in her bed at the ripe old age of 91. It was fitting that my mother, who had come to be her closest friend and companion in spite of their opposing views, was with her at the end.

Mother had insisted on spending the night at the Dower House when Violet complained of mild chest discomfort despite Richard's finding her heartbeat strong when he examined her. The Dowager insisted the reason for her pain was the new cook's recipe for lamb stew and demanded her good friend stop fussing over her so that she could get some rest. Then she retired for the night.

When my mother entered her room the next morning, Violet at first appeared still asleep. However, upon drawing closer to the bed she discovered her long-time companion and sparring partner had passed. She was happy to find that Violet left this earth with a smile on her face and her own mimicked it upon discovering the reason it was there. Pressed between Violet's hands was a photograph of a very young Robert and Rosamund in a Faberge' frame.

...

Mary and I were in America with George and Victoria when Violet took her last breath. We had made the trip across the Atlantic, which proved to be quite eventful, to first visit Mary's Grandmother and Uncle Harold in Newport and then went on to Chicago to attend the World's Fair. The exhibitions were touted as the presentation of "A Century of Progress" and each was a marvel to behold.

When we learned of Violet's death, we booked passage on the first ship we could find, a French liner that would be leaving in a couple of days from New York. Victoria, then only 10 was quite reluctant to leave as she was quite taken with the "Enchanted Island" exhibit; but she relented when she saw how anxious her Mama was to return home.

Although we could not arrive in time for Violet's funeral service, Mary's return was clearly a comfort to Robert, as I believe mine was to my own dear mother. We were welcomed warmly, too, by Edith and Evelyn as both were needed back in London but had delayed their departure until we got back to support Robert and Cora. The Napier family left the morning after our arrival satisfied that the Earl and Countess of Grantham were left in capable and loving hands.

George and Victoria were disappointed that their cousins could not stay at Downton longer. They missed Marigold since she moved to London and enjoyed spending time with Vivienne and Alexander, Edith and Evelyn's children by marriage, as well. As for their eldest daughter, no one who has seen the family together would guess that Marigold is not Evelyn's biological child as he dotes on her as much as he does the children that Edith bore him.

Edith's husband confessed that he had suspected that Marigold was her child from the first moment he laid eyes on her, unlike our father-in-law, who lived in denial of the strong resemblance between mother and daughter for quite some time. It was difficult for Robert to accept that his daughter had a child out of wedlock. However, as he did with Mary when he learned of her dalliance with Pamuk, he forgave his second daughter's indiscretion because his love for her far outweighed his disappointment.

I have wondered over the years if I had not lost my memory the day George was born, if Edith would have been saved the heartache of giving up her child as she did to prevent a scandal. There is no doubt in my mind that had I returned to Downton the day George was born, I would have done everything in my power to prevent Michael Gregson from continuing his relationship with my sister-in-law. Yet if I had managed to break the two lovers apart, Marigold would not exist and that would be tragic.

It is debatable whether it was Robert or Evelyn who was more put out when they discovered Marigold dancing with Jeremy Butler, a friend of George from Oxford's University Air Squadron Though it was clear that the two were equally pleased when the dance came to an end. Then it was my turn to brood as the young man claimed Victoria for the next dance. Mary teased that I looked like a farmer protecting his hen house from a stray wolf and I likely did. No matter, I kept a close eye on the amount of space between my daughter and her partner until I was distracted by Tom motioning Sybbie to his side and burst into laughter.

...

I was quite relieved Tom decided to shelve his plans to live in America, even though I could relate to why he was contemplating the move as I, too, have struggled at times with the life I was not born to. That common ground enabled me to share with him what had made it easier for me to cope with my change in circumstance since receiving the Earl of Grantham's letter that fateful day in Manchester.

My suggestion was that he capitalize on his status as Robert's son-in-law in righting what he saw wrong in society, citing the Law of Property Act passed in 1925 as an example of how persistence and the right connections could bring about change. Though it took over a decade, the entail that prevented anyone but the future Earl of Grantham from inheriting Robert's estate was finally abolished, his title no longer linked to it.

My pitch over, I was relieved to see a glint in Tom's eyes that I had not seen before. My final words on the subject detailed the laws that were being considered in Parliament that I knew would be of interest to him along with the part Evelyn and I played in getting them to the floor for a vote.

Then our conversation turned to Sybil. We each speculated on what her reaction would be to this changing world if she were still with us. Tom said he was certain she would have rejoiced that all women could now vote. I countered that she would have rejoiced that corsets were no longer worn and he said that was true because she had always hated them. Tom then added that Sybil would have been quite happy to see her favorite cartoon character, Mickey Mouse, on the cinema screen and his eyes welled up with tears.

When his loss would get the best of him, and especially when Sybbie were near to witness it, Mary would ask Tom to take a stroll with her and comfort him as best she could. But though my wife's devotion and support helped him, it was not until Tom met Lilian Pomeroy's sister that his heart began to truly mend.

...

Catherine Moore left Cork in 1933 to start a new life for herself and her two year-old son, both having been abandoned by her husband when the child was still an infant. Due to her circumstances, Catherine was able to petition the Catholic Church for an annulment of her marriage. Once done, she joined Lilian in London; like her sister, choosing nursing as her vocation. With her sibling's help, she quickly secured a position at the London Hospital.

Tom was introduced to Catherine and her son Daniel at George's 12th birthday party. Mary had insisted Lilian bring her sister and nephew with her to share in the festivities so that the family could meet them. No doubt romance was the last thing on Tom and Catherine's mind that day when the two were asked to take charge of "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" for the younger children in attendance. Yet when Tom noticed Lilian's comely sister laughing alongside Sybbie, cupid hit its mark, and the two were married a year later.

Catherine was warmly welcomed into the family by all of us who loved Sybil as we were certain she would not have wanted Tom to be alone. And after we got to know her, all were in agreement that she would not only make him happy but be a loving stepmother to Sybbie as she entered her teenage years.

Tom did not want to live at Downton with Catherine because it held too many memories of him and Sybil. Fortunately his dilemma was solved quickly by my mother-in-law, who suggested to her husband that he offer the couple the Dower House.

Thinking Cora's suggestion an excellent idea, Robert presented it to Tom and Catherine upon their return from their honeymoon, adding he believed it would make his mother happy in her final resting place to see a child (and perhaps more than one down the line) running through the halls as, though she did her best to hide it, those who knew her well were aware that she was quite fond of them.

That is exactly what we Crawleys found when we paid the Bransons our first visit in their new home. No sooner had our small group entered the house than Daniel rushed toward us with glee. Then we all erupted in laughter as the little boy, no doubt at the urging of his new step-sister, greeted the Earl of Grantham with, "Hello, Donk."

...

The sound of children's laughter as well as tears has filled the halls of Downton since we are housing 10 ranging in age from 3 to 11 who have been evacuated from London in "Operation Pied Piper." Each one arrived on our doorstep with a suitcase and government issued gas mask, which is a reminder of the madness that has overtaken us.

The program operates under the auspices of the Ministry of Health and has been responsible for thousands of London's children being moved from the city to the safety of the countryside. Mary and Edith have worked closely with the government officials responsible for transporting the children. And Mr. Molesley, on leave from his teaching position in the Village, is ensuring the children do not fall behind in their studies while tutoring them a few hours a day.

I think the younger children have had an easier time with their transition because they do not comprehend why they are here and have no real concept of time. The older ones, however, are aware that they could easily lose their parents in one of the bombing raids that wreak havoc on London daily.

Their apprehension and sadness is heart- wrenching to witness. To be sure, the only time they truly look peaceful is when they are asleep. And I was grateful that sleep was not disturbed by the sounds emanating from the party two stories below their bedrooms.

...

Although Downton was filled tonight with our family and dear friends, some were conspicuously missing. This is the first Crawley event of importance that has not been attended by the Heads or Cosgroves in nearly two decades, and they were sorely missed.

The bond that I formed with my neurologist, Henry, and his gracious wife Ruth while I suffered amnesia was strong enough to stand the test of time. The two took on the role of family for me after I was released from the London Hospital and took me into their home. They, along with Joseph and Lilian Cosgrove, have participated in countless Crawley celebrations in the last two decades from Rose's presentation at Buckingham Palace in 1923 to George's graduation from Eaton last year.

It is hard to believe that 17 years have passed since Rose made her debut in London. I remember clearly that Dr. Head was not impressed when he noticed he was sharing the dance floor with royalty as well as his telling me when the music stopped that his only concern throughout his waltz with my mother was that he not step on her feet. I chuckled at that before Henry put an abrupt stop to my levity by adding "It is difficult for someone with Parkinson's to glide gracefully."

That was how my old friend chose to inform me that he was ill. His wife Ruth told me years later that he kept the news from me as long as possible since he knew what my reaction would be. Always selfless, he did not want to take away from my joy at being reunited with my family at Downton.

The entire Crawley family attended Lilian and Joseph's wedding, including George who was enlisted to serve as the ring bearer. The congregation that gathered to witness the two become man and wife appeared entranced with our little chap waddling down the aisle. All down to Mary, who leaned out of one of the pews near the altar and beckoned him to her.

After adjusting Joseph's tie, I overheard a woman behind me remark that she had never laid eyes upon such a beautiful child. I then noticed that many in the crowd shared her sentiment and were fixated on George. I beamed with pride as I reached Mary But she, although delighted that our son was being admired, worried that George might steel Lilian's thunder.

Once the bride came into view, however, Mary's fear was allayed. Lilian never looked more beautiful. And as she made her way to the altar on Henry's arm, she quickly became the center of attention.

Henry's disease was in its early stages and only those who knew him well noticed his gait was off. It is ironic that she became his final study, meticulously recording each of his symptoms with the hope it would help others down the line. No doubt there were times he wished Dr. Rivers, who had worked with him for three years in their study on nerve regeneration, could have been there at his side.

I am certain that his assistance would especially have been appreciated when Henry's hand tremors made it impossible for him to write. That became one of Ruth's duties, along with a variety of other tasks that she took upon herself to make life easier for Henry.

When her husband required more care than she could give without assistance, Ruth found herself in a quandary. She knew Henry was uncomfortable with strangers seeing him in his condition. Yet she was near exhaustion. During one of our phone conversations, she shared her dilemma with me. And I advised her to broach the subject with Lilian, who I hoped could recommend someone Henry was familiar with at the London Hospital to be of assistance.

Lilian provided Ruth with more than a recommendation. Shortly thereafter, she and Joseph moved into the Heads' home in Eaton Square so that Henry could receive the care he needed without feeling self-conscious. I think Lilian and Joseph's only concern at that time was Henry's welfare. It is clear now that neither of them gave any thought to the length of time they would spend living with the Heads. They would stay until no longer needed.

The criteria for their moving never met, Joseph and Lilian still reside in Eaton Square 15 years later, though sadly they have shared their home this past year with Henry, alone.

...

Joseph called to relay the sad news that Ruth had died on the same day Prime Minister Chamberlain announced on the BBC that "a state of war existed between Britain and Germany." Mary and I traveled to London immediately to offer Henry our support on what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life.

We found him strapped in his wheelchair for his safety, the progression of his disease on full display and heartbreaking to witness. Though we were accustomed to his jerky motions and nervous ticks, this was the first time we saw Henry's face rigid, appearing as though set in a mask.

Knowing how fond Mary was of Henry, I assumed it very difficult for her to see him in this state. Her sharp intake of breath upon seeing him proved my assumption to be correct. Composing herself quickly, Mary crossed the room to join the man who had saved me in Whitechapel many years ago.

I looked on as my darling wife dropped to one knee in front of Henry's chair and took his trembling hands between her own. Then she looked into his eyes and said softly, "I know."

Henry squeezed her hand, one of his tears escaping those that had welled in his eyes, and Mary did not let go of him until Lilian asked her to rise so that she could administer his medication. I pulled Mary close and kissed the top of her head as I wondered, and not for the first time, how it were possible that I could love her more.

Whitechapel has born a heavy brunt of the German bombing as the Luftwaffe initially targeted London's seaports, leaving many docks burned to the ground. Subsequently, the flat that Lilian called home when she treated me as Patient #9 at the London Hospital has been flattened as are many that surrounded it.

Even Whitechapel Road, which runs directly in front of the hospital, has been destroyed by a direct hit. If not for the firemen Churchill has called, "heroes with dirty faces," this community, along with countless others, would undoubtedly be reduced to ashes by now.

Lilian is torn between the duty she feels she owes to the London Hospital and her loyalty to Henry. She is aware of the shortage of nurses due to the ever mounting civilian casualties. At the same time, Lilian cannot leave Henry as his condition has deteriorated.

Joseph is busier than ever at Scotland Yard dealing with the criminals who take advantage of the daily raids to loot local businesses as well as tracking down German spies. My prayers are with the Cosgroves; my fervent hope that they will safely ride out this storm. Unlike Cousin Rosamund, who has taken up permanent residence at Downton since the bombings began, they have vowed to remain.

My two dear friends have told me that their plight is made easier knowing their only child is safe at Downton, especially now since Belgravia has been attacked. Five days ago, Buckingham Palace was bombed, the attack prompting Queen Elizabeth to declare, "I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face."

And life goes on.

...

I could tell how thrilled Cora was tonight to have all her grandchildren under Downton's roof to celebrate George's birthday, her lovely smile widening as she viewed each of the gifts the second generation of Crawley children had picked for their cousin.

Marigold chose "Finnegan's Wake," no doubt knowing of George's fondness for James Joyce. Vivienne gave her cousin a camel colored cashmere scarf and Alexander, a silver flask engraved with George's initials (which was no doubt procured for him by Evelyn.) Sybbie catered to his sweet tooth by giving George a tin filled with wrapped Cadbury chocolate squares, almost impossible to find these days.

I saw Victoria approach her brother with what appeared to me at first to be a letter in her hand. As I drew closer, I could see that the cream colored parchment contained words written in calligraphy and in the center of the page, a large "V".

Then George read out loud the excerpt of Prime Minister Churchill's address which Victoria had so beautifully transcribed for him.

"You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival."

There was silence in the room for a few moments as we took in Churchill's eloquent words. George then made his way to his sister and pulled her into a quick embrace that prompted more than one onlooker to dab their eyes, especially Mary.

I pulled my wife close and swallowed hard as I heard George tell Victoria that her gift would not leave his pocket until this war was won.

As I watched the scene before me unfold, I knew this was the reason we had done everything in our power to avoid this war. Yet at the same time, the reason we must fight it.

...

I know now that Robert's choice of a name for the Labrador that would become George's constant companion was not only appropriate, but uncanny, as "Horus," the son of the Egyptian goddess Isis, is also the god of the sky.

George said he had hoped I did not feel disrespected that he chose to enlist in the RAF instead of the Army as I had. Quickly, I assured my son that was not the case, adding that I believed his choice was destined from the moment we attended our first Hendon Air Show together when he was four year's old.

I will never forget the look of awe on his face when a fleet of biplanes flew overhead in formation. That Christmas, his Hornby electric train set collected dust as his favorite toy was a small model plane called a FROG, aptly named as it "flew right off the ground."

George's fascination with planes and air flight grew as he did and has never wavered. He realized his dream of flying when he joined the Oxford University Air Squadron only a month after he entered Kings College. His voice would be filled with excitement when he would call home on weekends after one of his flying lessons, leading Mary and I to conclude that George would eventually enlist in the RAF. But up until the time Britain was attacked, he honored our request that he would remain in school until conscripted.

At that time there were many at home and abroad that referred to the state of affairs with Germany as "the phony war" since the Germans had managed their conquests in Europe with no major battles and Britain had not been engaged at all. That all changed on July 10th, when one of our shipping convoys was attacked by Luftwaffe fighters and bombers in the channel. When Mr. Barrow called me out of the library that evening as I had a phone call from George, I knew we could no longer hold him back.

...

The party came to an end about 12:30 and I was glad to bid the last guest who was departing a safe trip home as I was anxious to see Mary. She had already retired to our bedroom and was no doubt waiting up for me and the item she had requested I bring her.

I found my lovely wife sitting at her vanity rubbing cream into her hands when she noticed me enter the room with her childhood good luck charm in my own. Mary rose quickly, making her way to me with a gleam in her eyes.

"You found it!" she exclaimed with glee. Then she threw her arms around my neck.

"My darling, surely you are feigning surprise. You had to know that I would," I replied.

"Perhaps I did, but I am still quite happy to see it," she countered.

She stared then at the tiny stuffed dog in my hand for a long moment before taking it. Seeing her expression change, I could tell she was thinking of the day she gave it to me for luck as well as the reason she was holding it now.

"I cannot lose him, Matthew," she said emphatically. "I know that I simply could not bear it because the pain of losing you is still vivid in my memory."

I pulled Mary into my arms and guided her head to the spot directly over my heart.

"I know this is hell, darling, and I wish that I could promise you that you have nothing to fear...But if I did, I would be lying to you…and that is something I will never do. Yet I implore you to not lose sight of the fact that whatever the future brings, you will not face it alone. I believe with all my heart that our strength combined can withstand whatever may come. And I want very much for you to believe that, too."

Mary lifted her head and pushed back a stray strand of my hair that had fallen onto my forehead before she replied, "Well, since your strength has enabled you to turn back the Grim Reaper, I think perhaps I should believe you." Then, she kissed me and set off for bed, yawing loudly as she made her way.

After making sure that Mary was sleeping soundly, I crept down the hall to George's room. Though I was fairly certain he, too, would be fast asleep as the day had been long, I felt compelled to see him safe and sound in his room one last time before he would join the battle.

The door squeaked ever so slightly as I opened it and as I cursed under my breath, George's voice rang out.

"Father?"

I think perhaps that the reason I recollect all the words that followed is because I feared this might be the last conversation we would have under this roof. Even now, I fear that it might be so.

I apologized for waking him and he said no apology was necessary as he had not been able to fall asleep, claiming he was still wound up from the excitement of the party.

"Quite understandable," I said as though I believed that were the reason he was still awake.

After a brief silence, George cleared his throat and then went on to say, "Father, I know that we will have time to talk during the car ride to Catterick in the morning but have been hoping to find a moment where we could do so privately…and if you aren't dreadfully tired, this seems like a good opportunity."

Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, I replied, "I think the excitement of the party is affecting me, as well. I am not tired at all," I said with conviction, stifling a yawn. "And I would be happy to speak with you as long as you like."

I saw George smile then by the light of the moon coming through the window. And though I cannot deny he does resemble me in many ways, his smile is Mary's.

Leaning forward toward me, he began with the question, "Have you fulfilled your mission in finding the toy dog that Mother gave you when you went off to battle?"

"How did you….?"

"I guess what Uncle Tom says is true," George replied before I could finish my question. "He has told me that I am quite clever as I am the byproduct of two intelligent people."

I could not help but chuckle then, "Leave it to your Uncle Tom to describe you as a byproduct. I think he has spent way too many hours in agricultural meetings."

We both laughed heartily. And then the expression on his face changed. I could tell by it that our conversation was about to turn serious.

"I want you to know that the flight commander who has been training me these last three months has told me that I have been his best pupil."

"I would not have expected otherwise," I said.

"I am not telling you this because I am bragging about my skills, Father. The only reason I have mentioned my commander's praise at all is because it is important to me that you know I will have a very good shot at surviving this war."

My eyes began to sting and I swallowed hard, determined that I would not allow anything further until I left the room.

"I know you are no braggart, George. And it makes me very happy to know that you are confident that you will return to us…Very happy, indeed."

"I need you to know, too, that if against the odds I do not make it back home, that I have thanked God many times that you did not die in that accident the day I was born...because you have been the most wonderful father a son could ever hope for."

I was still determined that I would remain composed for George. But my son did not make it easy.

"George…."

"Please, Father, let me finish. I know I have been doing most of the talking ...but there is just a bit more I need to say."

I nodded my head and said softly, "By all means, go on then."

"If the worst does happen, I want you to tell Mother that I admire her strength and determination to succeed no matter what," he blurted. "...And tell her that I love her dearly…as I do you and Victoria. I would like her to know that there has not been a day since she was born that I have not been grateful that she was my sister."

He smiled then and added, "Well, perhaps I was not glad of it the day she broke the wing off the Spirit of '76 model that took me a week to assemble."

At that, we both laughed. And I did my best to continue the lightened mood.

"I will, of course, honor your request, George. But I feel confident in lieu of your exceptional skills that I will not have to relay your messages."

George smiled once more before taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.

"I have spoken to Uncle Tom regarding Charles Bryant as it is obvious he is head over heels for Sybbie…Charles is a gentleman who comes from good stock and I believe his intentions toward her are honorable. I did not want Uncle Tom to lose any sleep over him," he explained. "...And Charles and Sybbie have something very sad in common as he, too, never knew his mother. She died when he was a baby...although Charles wasn't as fortunate as Sybbie in having a loving father like Uncle Tom. His own was killed at the Front in World War I. Charles was raised by his grandparents," he finished on a solemn note.

At that moment, I felt as if Downton had come full circle.

As if remembering one last thing he had to relay to me, George spat out, "And, I need to tell you to keep a close watch on Jeremy Butler should he ever come to visit Downton. I spoke to him about the attention he paid to Victoria at the party this evening as I have found him to be somewhat cavalier in his dealings with young women. Rest assured, Father, that I made it abundantly clear I would not tolerate him treating my sister in that manner... Still, you must be vigilant."

I assured him that he had no need to worry on that score. Then I heard him yawn.

"I am more tired than I thought," he declared before jockeying about on the mattress in search of a comfortable position to lie down.

Once found, he sighed and said, "Good Night, Father. I'll see you in the morning."

Grateful that I would, I rose slowly, taking one more look at him.

"Good Night, George. Sleep well."

Then I left the room, closing the door softly behind me.

...

I have spent a considerable amount of time walking down memory lane this past week. And even now images of George still fill my thoughts. I see him as a newly born baby looking up at me with a quizzical expression on his face as I introduce myself to him, a toddler with fair hair and blue eyes grasping hold of his Mama's necklace, a lanky teenager, waving excitedly to Mary and me from the window in his room on his first day at Eton. The entire walk back to car, we lamented leaving him as he would be sorely missed. Yet there was tradition to be met for those who would be Earl of Grantham one day. Now there is no certainty that he will ever be.

As I break from writing, the details surrounding the clay horse in my storage chest comes to the forefront of my mind. I was in the library reading through a tenant contract when Mary brought then five-year old George in to deliver his birthday gift to me. My beautiful wife took a seat and smiled in my direction while George remained in the spot where he and his Mama had parted.

"Go ahead, darling," she said to our little chap. "Give your Papa the present you made for him."

George appeared somewhat anxious as he handed me the box he held in his hand. I commented on how lovely it was wrapped. And he smiled at Mary before telling me that she had helped him with that. Carefully, I removed the bow and wrapping and placed both on my desk for safe keeping. Then, I opened the box and lifted the clay horse out of it. As I eyed it over, George asked nervously, "Do you like it, Papa?"

The horse appeared to have five legs (although Mary explained to me later that what seemed a fifth leg was the horse's tail) and one of its ears stood higher than the other. Yet I considered it the most beautiful piece of art in the entirety of Downton and I told George as much.

"I told you Papa would love it, George," Mary said as she joined us and kissed the top of his head.

George smiled widely beaming with pride. And as he did, I noticed he had lost another tooth.

The sun will be up in less than two hours. I would not bother retiring at all since there is precious little time left to sleep before morning begins in earnest. The only reason I will slip into bed is so Mary will find me at her side when she opens her eyes.

We will dress and join the family for breakfast Then Tom will bring the car around to drive George and us to Catterick. I am glad that Mary suggested he take on his old role as chauffeur for us one last time for this special trip as he has a way of lightening the general mood when the need arises. And no doubt it will today.

I have dreaded this moment ever since George informed us of his assignment. Dreaded it, feared it, and done everything in my power to not dwell on it. But, I have failed miserably. I can hear Dr. Rivers, the psychiatrist who treated me when I suffered amnesia, telling me I must find a way to accept that which is beyond my control. "If not your life will be diminished by anger, frustration and fear," he cautioned.

This past week, I have found myself in the throes of all three, and it has taken a herculean effort on my part to hide my distress from Mary and George.

It frustrates me to no end that my age and the damage my spine sustained at Amiens prevents me from active duty. I know now some of what Robert felt when he was denied service in 1914. It seems my only contribution to this war will be the food that our farms provide to the military and shelter to some of the displaced children of London. That is, with the exception of George. And truth be told, I cannot claim that contribution as mine alone as I share it with Mary.

We two have provided the War Department with a valuable commodity since it is their firm belief that that the Battle of Britain will be won or lost in the skies overhead. The role that George will play in the outcome of that battle has instilled anxiety in me that I have not known since I found I had no feeling in my legs.

I am filled with anger, too. It simmers near boil ready to overflow each time I hear the projected tally of those killed that day in a bombing raid on London. I find myself in its grip when I pass by a recruiting station and see the young faces of those enlisting as I am reminded that this war, like those in the past, will be fought by many who have barely reached adulthood.

I can become easily enraged when the Chancellor of Germany becomes the topic of conversation because I have read Mein Kampf and can see its contents coming to life. German Jews have been stripped of their citizenship and there are Polish prisoners singled out by the Star of David. I have no doubt should Germany win this war, countless innocents will suffer because of their heritage, and I cannot help but fear for those I love who share Cora's bloodline. Hitler must be stopped.

The change that is upon us now may prove to be the most difficult to navigate by far. Not only do we face each day with our country at battle and under siege but must go through the motions of daily life knowing our son is at risk of losing his. Thankfully we do not face these horrors alone.

Tom will wait in the car while Mary and I share our remaining moments with our son. She will press the tiny stuffed dog into his hand as she did mine at the Downton train station when I headed off to war. George will thank her before he places it in his jacket pocket beside Victoria's gift. Mary will ask that he bring it back to her without a scratch and our son will promise to do his best to honor her request. The two will share a private moment that will end with Mary placing a kiss on George's cheek and wishing him, "such good luck." She will turn quickly then so he will not see her tears and head back to the car and Tom's support.

I will grasp George's hand in mine and tell him that I could not be more proud of him. We will stay locked that way until we have had enough time to read the unspoken words in each others' eyes.

And then, I will let go.

...

If not for Mary's request, I would be lying beside her at this very moment relishing her company and the comfort of our bed instead of hunched over this desk with pen in hand. I must thank her when we are, once again, able to speak of more than war and George because her request led me to find exactly what I needed.

On this most difficult day, I can see clearly that the common theme in these many pages has been change. Some change has been welcome and some has not, but no matter which, it has been constant. That gives me hope as I am reminded that this, too, shall pass.

Knowing the Battle of Britain was close at hand, Winston Churchill said,' Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, 'This was their finest hour.'

It is time now that we begin to fill the minutes.

No doubt when this chapter of my and Mary's story comes to an end, we will wish it could be edited. Yet no matter how our story unfurls, I have faith that together we will find a way to turn the page.

...

AN: This story took many weeks to research and I think the same number of months to finish. If you enjoyed it or have constructive criticism, I would love to hear from you. Reviews keep fan fiction writers writing!

As for the real possibility that Matthew could have survived his accident, just this week there was an article in news of woman who woke (that was supposedly dead) in a funeral home. Matthew's survival is based on fact and could be cannon.

I am going to be posting some one shots that will take place during 20 year period from the time Matthew returned to Mary in this AU. I hope you will follow me so you will not miss any of them.

My goal from the start of this tale has been to prove Matthew could have survived his accident and to bring him back to those he loves. I think I have completed my mission.

Only the Downton characters and those from Eaton Square are fictional Dr. Head and Rivers and, obviously, Winston Churchill are not. The events that do not directly pertain to Downton are historical facts.

I thank my tumblr friend, americangirl for jumping in as my beta at a moment's notice. Although she was not given much time, she gave me very sound advice.

Disclaimer: I give Julian Fellowes full credit for the characters he created that are part of Patient #9 and the rest goes to me.

I am msmenna on tumblr, too.


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